


Mycroft - Cypher

by AlessNox



Series: Mycroft's Mind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season 3, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is the country's mastermind, but much of his time is spent worrying about his wayward little brother and his former flatmate Dr. John Hamish Watson.<br/>Sequel to Mycroft - Confessions, Truth and Lies<br/>WARNING: Spoilers for season 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15 June, 2012

 

 

 

_**I:** 15 June, 2012_   
_Her majesty's location Nottingham, the diamond jubilee. State of Emergency declared in Burma. More requests from the Greek government. Heavy rains predicted. Bring Umbrella._

**II:** My forced confession had done its job. I, Mycroft Holmes have finally received the one thing that the government has always been loathe to give me. Time off. Now I have time to make arrangements for Sherlock to leave the country. A shame about the Afghan crisis. I had been involved in some delicate negotiations. It isn't a good time to be distracted from my work, but then again, my little brother always has been a distraction.

This time, however, his interests and mine are aligned. Moriarty has been a thorn my side time and time again. A chaotic element in the shifts of power that keep the world running smoothly. Who would have guessed that James Moriarty would become infatuated with my little brother? Who would have guessed that Sherlock Holmes would allow himself to die to the world, would allow the media to call him an idiot, just to destroy this criminal's network? It was surprising. But then again, Sherlock has always been surprising ever since he was a child back when his greatest ambition was to become a pirate. Although I would never admit it, Sherlock makes my life bearable, because he always has a way of doing the unexpected.

_**III:** 19849433241,27748873851, simple. They are square roots. Do the inverse and combine to form 394 770 037 594 999 459-39489405900. The format suggest the Raiffeisen group of banks. Comparing to their standard account number suggests ..._

**IV:** "I'll be going to Pakistan first, and then Tibet. How do I reach you?"  
"You have my number."  
"This money won't last for long."  
"Don't worry about money. Moriarty stored his private bank account numbers on his phone. You can use his own ill gotten gains to bring down his organization. Poetic justice, is it not?"  
"So those were bank account numbers stored in the databank? I thought that they were encrypted?"

" A simple substitution cypher, I believe. It shouldn't take long to decode. I will send it to you."  
"Give me the numbers and I'll figure it out myself."  
"No need. I told you that I'm working on it."

Sherlock nodded and covered his dark curls with his hat. He pulled up the collar of the cheap dockman's parka that he was wearing, and walked to the door. "You will watch over things while I'm away won't you?"  
"I always watch over things. What things in particular concern you?"  
"I'll want my coat back."  
Mycroft laughed, "You always fill your mind with such useless trivia, my dear brother."  
"And John. Will you keep an eye on John?"  
"Two eyes, whenever I get the chance, and ..."

"And what?"

"A small thank you wouldn't go amiss."  
"What for? If you hadn't let Moriarty's organization get out of hand, then I never would have had to leave London in the first place. It's time to go. Goodbye Mycroft."  
"Good Luck, Sherlock."


	2. 16 October, 2013

 

 

 

_**I.** 16 October, 2013 _

_Opposition planning to make points at Prime Minister Question Time, Rise in patriotism index due to England football win, Core from the Russian meteorite recovered from lake and shown to be a rock and not a spy satellite as some had claimed. Overcast and cool, some rain expected_

**II.**

Sherlock's absence is beginning to be worrying. He made his last report two weeks ago, his last pick up of money five days ago, and then nothing. He is supposed to be in Serbia investigating one Baron Maupertuis, a particularly sadistic criminal and dealer of chemical and biological weapons. I would send an agent in, but at the moment all of my best agents have been pulled back home to investigate. All signs point to a massive terrorist strike on British soil. If Sherlock has got himself in too deep, then I might have to do some...(indrawn breath) Field work.

**IV.**

He sat back in his desk and pulled out a file. A man with a mustache stared back at him.

  **II.**

What will Sherlock think when he comes back to find that John Watson has moved on? Surely he's seen the website. Recently, John has been spending time staring into jewelry store windows. Not one of his normal occupations. And his intended, Mary Morstan, a nurse at his surgery, sweet, pretty in her way, but much cleverer than any of the other women that he has dated. And her history, very interesting. But then again, John Watson never had a problem living with interesting people.

Mycroft rubbed his middle finger across the portrait. I like the new look. I think the mustache is quite fetching. It makes him look more dignified, like a Colonel from the Indian wars.

**IV.**

"Sir"

"Yes, Agnes."

"We found Masterson's body. He is confirmed dead."

"Damn! I hate losing agents. And his message?"

"He said, and I quote, _'There's an underground terrorist network in London, and a massive attack is immanent.'_ "

"An attack, where? Did he give us any locations, coordinates?"

"That's all that he managed to say before..."

"That's hardly enough information to go on. Back trace his location. Find everywhere that he has been in the last twenty four hours. We must find that underground terrorist network."

"Yes sir," she said carefully closing the door just as his phone rang. It was Mummy. He gave a great sigh before pressing the button.

"Hello."

"Mycroft! Good Afternoon. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

"Yes Mummy."

"That's good, because I'm having a dinner party this weekend and I'd like you to attend."

"I don't think that will be possible. There is an urgent matter..."

"Now you know, Mycroft, that there is always an urgent matter going on sometime or another. If they need you, they will come and get you. I want you here."

"But Mummy..."

"I've invited Margarie Hamilton as well. You remember her, you took dance classes together. She's looking just lovely. She just left her long-time boyfriend, poor girl. She could use some cheering up and you are getting entirely too old to not be married."

"Mummy?"

"And what about Sherlock? Is he alright, he hasn't phoned."

"He can't contact anyone Mummy, he's undercover."

"But he is alright?"

Mycroft took a breath. "I don't know how he is right now, he's out of touch."

"Out of touch. Is he in danger?"

"The situation that he has gone into is volatile, yes, but there is nothing to suggest that he has been hurt."

"Mycroft Holmes, you know that I depend on you to keep your little brother out of trouble."

"Yes Mummy."

"I'll let you miss this weekend's dinner, but I want you to find your brother and make sure that he's alright."

"Yes, Mummy."

"You know that I worry."

"Yes Mummy."

"Now take care, Oh, and your Father says goodbye."

"Goodbye Daddy, Mummy."

He disconnected the call and sat down, always surprised at his need to remain standing when talking to his mother. Then he texted Agnes.

[Book flight to Serbia and buy me a warm coat with Russian Army stylings.]

 

**II** _._ I suppose that I am going undercover. How tedious.

 

_**III:** Serbian. Cyrillic alphabet. Slavic. Similar to Turkish. There must be loan words. srce, "heart", plav, "blue", Zdravo priјatyeljoo!, "Hello my friend!"_


	3. 28 October, 2013

**I.** _28 October, 2013._

_Three days after the eruption of mount Etna, Heavy rains across Europe due to storm St. Jude. Damp and dismal, especially in this squalid Serbian prison._

**II.** Now I remember why I hate fieldwork so much: The noise, the squalor, the smell. The man beside me must not have bathed for a week. No wonder he has an adulterous wife. Look, another puddle. Can they not invest in proper roofing? The guard points when I ask how to find the "Security Room". Honestly, as if anything in this base is secure. I hardly needed the expertly forged papers revealing me to be an noted interrogator. I could probably have walked up to the gate and claimed to be soviet era fighter pilot and got in just as easily. They are hardly discerning. The Baron has a lot to learn about ruling the world. I could certainly give him lessons. He should keep cleaner barracks for one.

A clean well-fed soldier is an efficient soldier. Case in point, John Watson. I have been through his service records from the very beginning. And before then, to his school records. He played rugby as a youth. He studied medicine. John Watson has very clean habits, and despite Sherlock's constant chiding about the patterns of his jumpers, he has a very pleasing style and appearance in my opinion. Many a time I've noticed it, when we sat together over lunch discussing Sherlock. The way that the blue stripes of his shirt complemented the deep blue of his eyes.

But there is no blue to be seen today, only the blacks and browns, and greys of this hellish prison. It was easy enough to get into it. The difficulty will be in getting out again once Sherlock is found. As far as I know, neither of us knows how to fly a helicopter. Besides that, the easiest way out to get out, would be to send a message for a recovery team. Then they could dispose of the Baron's men at the same time. Agnes, or Anthea as she prefers to be called in a covert situation, will have set up an office for me by now. She has probably found me a desk and a portrait of the queen for the wall. Anthea is nothing if not efficient. But now, I must assess the communications and find the exits to this place.

**III.** _Front gate two guards and one guard station in sight of the main gate._ Not the best. _Side gate. Two guards, Laundry service in at 4 pm twice weekly. Back gate for food deliveries. Weekly for the prison and barracks. Every morning for the castle at the top of the hill._ How very much like a vampire story. The bloody baron in the castle with a prison at the base to house his victims. _Food trucks are searched on the way in and out. Two guards stationed at the back gate, but it is isolated. Not visible from the barracks._ Possible weak point.

**IV.**

Mycroft entered the security room to find the guards on their feet."What is it? What's going on?" he asked.

"An intruder was in the castle."

"An intruder?"

"Yes, the Baron's room has been completely ransacked. He won't admit to anything being stolen but the main house is in an uproar. We are to search the grounds."

"Do they think that he's still here?"

"Look! The back gate! Use the alarm!"

"What?"

"Someone has disabled the guard and is getting out."

Mycroft looked at the screen and caught sight of a tall, long-haired man with a familiar gait sliding under the chain that sealed the back gate.

Mycroft reached out his foot and covertly disconnected the speaker system's power cable.

"Hit the alarm!"

"I did. It won't work."

"Why not?"

"It must be problem with the speakers," Mycroft said, "check the roof. There is a usually a switch box there."

"Right." the guard said rushing out, the other man following behind.

Mycroft closed the door and locked it. When they asked, he would explain that it was a standard security measure when the base was under attack. Sherlock had found a motorcycle now, and was riding away. Some guards had caught sight of him, but they were hampered by the locked gate. No one apparently had the key. Sherlock would have certainly disposed of one of them. The other was in the drawer on the desk in front of Mycroft. He put his feet up and sat back. Yes, the Baron certainly had a lot to learn about ruling the world, or catching a Holmes.


	4. 1 November, 2013

**_I._ ** _1 November 2013, evening._

_No decent news sources in this place. Only news is that I have found Sherlock._

**II.** They had used infrared sensors when they had hunted him by helicopter, so simply leaving the grounds is not enough. We must appear to have a legitimate reason to leave, or we will never make it to Anthea's waiting car.

Luckily, the guards at the gate will be expecting to see me, since I have been leaving the base at this same time each day, arguably to buy special cigarettes from a woman who runs a store nearby. In truth, I have been teaching her French as she has a wish to visit Paris. Most of the guards, however, believe that I am secretly shagging her.

Anthea is seven miles away, parked in front of a night club. People will assume a similar story when they see a beautiful, rich, British woman welcome two strong Serbian soldiers into her car.

Once there, we should be safe, but we must get out of here before Sherlock's absence is discovered. The young guard with the earphones had believed me when I pointed to the stack of potatoes in the darkened cell and said that some time alone would loosen his tongue. But if anyone were to look at all closely, they would set off the alarm.

Stand up straight, Sherlock. Please don't stagger or fall down before we get to the truck. I'll smile and distract the man so that he won't see your wayward locks peeking out from under your hat. Get inside. The darkened cab should hide the hair on your face. Depending on circumstances, which at this moment are chaotic, we have from five to twenty five minutes before everything here goes to hell.

**_III._ ** _Chance of pursuit? Mansion in chaos. Attention divided. No pursuit from uphill. Prison Guard en route to home to confront wife. Will divert attention. Helicopter out of fuel. Fuel reserves low due to leak in tank. Sabotage. No pursuit. Tracker on truck disabled._

**IV.**

The guards waved them through the gate, and they drove away at an easy pace. But as soon as they had passed into the welcoming darkness of the forest, Sherlock slouched in his chair, his head falling to the side.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Uhnnn, that hurt."

"You had escaped before. I saw you. Why did you come back?"

"The job wasn't finished yet."

"The Baron?"

"Dead."

"You killed him?"

"Not directly, but I did set it in motion. His lieutenant actually did the deed."

"But if it was going to happen anyway, why return?"

"I destroyed the source of his power, his formulas, his weapons. This organization won't stand without him. It's over," Sherlock said, then he slouched forward and passed out.

Mycroft put out a hand to stoke his head, "Always so reckless, little brother." he said before increasing the speed of the truck, and turning down a side road toward the night club and Anthea's waiting car.


	5. 2 November, 2013

**_I._ ** _2 November, 2013_

_French Journalists killed in Mali, another cease fire in Yemen, severe flooding throughout England and Wales, and the world seems much more tolerable after a shower and a good cup of tea._

**II.** The office that Anthea has managed to create is very good despite the fact that we are not in England. The Annigoni portrait of Her Majesty was always one of my favorites. Sherlock after his shave is back to his irritating self, accusing me of enjoying his suffering. I suppose that it was too much to ask for him to appreciate my sacrifice. Leaving London and doing field work, which I hate, in order to save his life. Even so, he cannot deny that he owes me for the last two years. He can start by finding that terror cell. I wonder how long it will be before he asks about him.

**_III._ ** _The baroness is in the custody of the Serbian government. The Lieutenant of Baron Maupertuis has already been jailed for his murder. Interpol will have him relocated to Germany where he is wanted for several murders. Much more secure than the Serbian jails. The baroness who has also been accused as an accessory will probably buy her way out of trouble. No matter. She is a small fish._

**IV.**

"And what about John Watson?"

"John?"

"Have you seen him?"

"Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips." Mycroft says sarcastically. "I've kept a weather eye on him of course. You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"

"Um no." Sherlock looks at the picture of John with his new mustache, "We'll have to get rid of that."

"We?"

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen wandering around with an old man. I think, I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted."

"You think so?"

"Mmm, walk into Baker street, you know jump out of a cake."

"Baker street? He isn't there anymore. Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away."

**II.**

The arrogance of my brother. Supposing that he can walk back into John Watson's life as if he'd simply been away for the weekend. To assume he will forgive him for faking his death, and leaving him heartbroken for two years. I suppose that he can't have understood how badly John took his death. That depth of feeling is alien to Sherlock.

If he only knew how closely I have watched John Watson, his struggles, his pain. So stoic at the funeral only to collapse in grief when he thought himself alone. Why is it that everyone calls me cold when Sherlock discounts John's grief so casually?

**IV.**

"Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?"

"You always know."

**II.**

It's true. I always know. I make it my priority to know. If Sherlock knew how closely I monitor John Watson, he would say that my attention borders on the obsessive. No, he would say that it is obsessive. My forced confession was not entirely a lie. Very little of it was, in fact.

It is because of my attention that I know what John is planning to do tonight. Let Sherlock walk into that land mine and see if John forgives him. Maybe Sherlock is right. Maybe I do enjoy seeing him beaten. I suppose that a warning is the least that I can do.

**IV.**

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

"No it isn't. Now where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"You know what."

Anthea enters then with his precious coat. She says "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."

And he is back. Thank the heavens.


	6. 4 November, 2013

**I.** _4 November, 2013_

_Terror alert has been raised to critical._

**II.**

One of the great comforts in my life is that no matter how old we get, Sherlock remains the same as ever. He is my one constant in a world of uncertainty. That is why I allow him talk me into playing childish games. I suppose one might call it ... nostalgia.

**IV.**

"Upsy, can't handle a broken heart. How very telling."

"Don't be smart."

"That takes me back, ' _Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one.'_ "

"I am the smart one."

"I used to think I was an idiot."

"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on, 'til we met other children."

"Oh yes, that was a mistake."

**II.**

It was true that I thought that Sherlock was an idiot. His mind was always so linear. It is all cause and effect, effect and cause. Despite my tutelage, he was unable to learn how to think in parallel. He found it virtually impossible to process more than one thought at the same time. Even now, when he concentrates hard on one problem, he doesn't notice the world around him. He is totally unaware of his environment. I remember how much fun it was to give him problems to deduce only so that I could watch him drop his milk glass when a revelation struck him, humorous. Despite this deficiency, he is able to make great leaps of logic cutting straight to the heart of a problem and then solving backwards from the answer.

This is why he is so useful. He does in leaps and jumps what takes me long hours of parallel calculations to solve. And he can find answers in the absence of complete sets of data. I need data to function. How can I lay down layers of information to build up a clear picture of what will happen, without data? There would be gaps. How painful. It takes time and good intelligence to get the information needed to complete an accurate picture of the world. That is why I insist on the best information sources. At this time, the British government still has a lead in that area. Thank goodness for the surveillance state!

**_III._ ** _Tell Anthea to check for strange comings and goings at the foreign embassies. Remember to send security updates to the prime minister daily. Investigate whether clogging of nuclear reactor cooling plant is due to sabotage. And have Anthea send a car for the parents when they get into town, if they don't misplace their ticket, again._

**IV.**

"Oh yes... _'friends'_. Of course you go in for that sort of thing now."

"And you don't...ever?"

"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish."

"Yes, but I've been away for two years."

"So."

"Oh, I don't know, I thought that you might have found yourself a...goldfish."

"Change the subject...now!"

**II.**

Sherlock is gloating. Odd that he should gloat about having friends now? Although he has Inspector Lestrade and Miss Hooper to fall back on, John Watson openly attacked him. According to the footage that I reviewed last night, he had done so, repeatedly. And yet, Sherlock continues to lecture me on friendship. I may lack experience when it comes to having friends, however In the game of deductions, I always win.

**IV.**

"But you've missed his isolation ..."

"I don't see it..."

Sherlock places an ugly knit cap on his head. It doesn't suit him.

"... Anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Not at all, Maybe he just doesn't mind being different, doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."

"Exactly."

"I'm sorry?"

"He's different, so what? Why would he mind? Quite right. Why would anyone mind?"

"I'm not lonely, Sherlock."

"How would you know?"

**II.**

_Tou·ché!_

It is a bit humbling. Sherlock so rarely wins an argument with me. In another time I would have countered him with a list of problems associated with emotions. Caring isn't an advantage. I've seen it time and again. However, lately I have been wondering if there is not something to be gained from ...companionship.

It isn't a new thought for me. After all, even the beasts find mates. Even the simplest find some kind of satisfaction from companionship. Huddling together for warmth and that sort of thing. And children raised with only cold reason and no touch will die they say. I am not _unaware_ of physical desire. I am no virgin. Lack of experience in such matters is a handicap that is too easily exploited. Look at how Irene Adler manipulated Sherlock. Such tricks would not work on me.

But Irene Adler is a prime example of why I avoid relationships. She is intelligent, but deadly, like an asp or a viper. One would not willingly clasp such a thing to one's breast. Gone are the days when reading of the intelligent men of the Renaissance could stir my blood. No one that I have ever met with an iota of true intelligence is to be trusted. And to cling to a lesser mortal, a goldfish, is as pointless an exercise as sleeping with a blanket or a stuffed bear.

And yet, it is impossible to ignore the change that has come over Sherlock. How he has turned from an apathetic drug-using cynic into someone who has... what is it exactly? I suppose one would call it _'hope'_. He has hope that tomorrow will be worth living. In fact, one could almost call him an optimist. The way he so fervently argues in favor of friendships when the person whom he had "died" for, the very one for whom he had lived a pseudonymous existence for two years, has rejected him. He still believes that John Watson will return to him despite all evidence to the contrary, and if truth be told, I believe it too.

Because John Watson is an exceptional man, exceptional in his loyalty. He has always loyally stood by others, from his mother during her divorce, to his dishonored commanding officer, to Sherlock in his disgrace. Even I can not help being moved by him. So much so, that when Sherlock asked me if I had ever considered it, I panicked. I was afraid that somehow he would read my mind.

He can never know that when I close my eyes at night, I can't help but imagine large, strong hands upon my cheek, and the tickle of pale mustache hairs beside my lips.


	7. 6 November, 2013

**_I._ ** _6 November 2013_

_Parliament scare halted. Chambers evacuated while teams search out all of the bombs. Forecast: a mixture of sunshine and showers. Prediction: More storms ahead._

**II.**

How could I have missed it? I must have slackened off after Sherlock's return, assumed that all was safe after Moriarty's network was finished. John Watson was almost burned to death. Burned! Who would have done such a thing and why?

Was it an attack on Sherlock? Was it an attack on me? Have I somehow revealed my weakness at last? The priest, he could have told someone, despite the assurances of confidentiality, there is always a way to make someone talk if one works hard enough. And there are those who know how to exploit such weaknesses when they are found. But who did it? Who?

Moriarty? No. Confirmed dead. Moriarty's associates? No. Sherlock says that they have all been dealt with. Rival governments? No. It makes no sense for any country to mount a personal attack on me at this time, if it was a personal attack.

**_III._ ** _Assess odds that this is an attack against Sherlock. List Sherlock's personal enemies known to be free, and in the area. List currently numbers 234. Number one..._

**II.**

Ah, here comes Mummy, heaven help me.

**IV.**

"Mycroft."

"Mummy."  
She pats his stomach.

"Your waistcoat getting a bit tight isn't it? You've got to watch your weight you know. You have your grandfather's metabolism and heaven knows he had trouble with his weight. Died at 58 from a heart attack. When they opened him up the arteries were clogged straight through. Sherlock, on the other hand, can't keep a pound on him. He looked like a stick when we were over there, didn't he dear?"

"Yes dear, like a stick."

"Who knows if he was even eating when he was on his trip. He said that he'd call more. Of course he can hardly call less when he hasn't called us at all in two years."

"Things will be better now that he's back, I'm sure Mummy."

"Oh, I think things are already better. That old flatmate of his showed up when we were over. Dr. Wilson? No ...what was it again?"

"Watson. Dr. John H. Watson."

"Yes, that's him. I had never met him before, but Sherlock didn't give us time to introduce ourselves. He pushed us right out the door. I had to stick my foot in it to get him to say that he'd call. He promised though, didn't he dear?"

"Yes, he promised he'd call."

"That's right."

"Dr. Watson, did he seem to be angry at all?"

"Angry? Well, not that I could see. Though, as I said, I didn't see much of him. He seemed very cordial though, and Sherlock was certainly excited to see him. He shoved me right out! It was almost as if he had invited a girl over and he didn't want his mother to embarrass him. Well, it's how I'd imagine it to be. It's not as if he's ever invited a girl over before, or a boy for that matter if you don't count that Trevor fellow. So tell me about the musical that we're going to see."

"Here is the program, Mummy. Have a look. Now please excuse me, I need to give Sherlock a ring."

Mycroft walked out of the room and then sighed heavily before opening his phone.

"What is it Mycroft?"

"I hear you had a visitor. So did the good doctor find it in his heart to forgive you after all?"

"Of course, I told you he would. Is that all? I have guests over."

"Guest?"

"Yes guests. All of us are not solitudinarians like you. And I have things to do today."

"Ah yes, the press announcement. Your public declaration that you are not dead. A bit sensational don't you think?"

"It doesn't hurt to get a little publicity. That's how we make our money, after all. Clients won't know to hire us if they still think I'm dead."

"Us? Aren't you assuming a bit much of the good doctor? He has proposed to Mary by now, hasn't he?"

"Not quite, but that won't stop him working with me. He shaved off that silly mustache for me after all."

"Did he? The mustache is gone?"

"I'm surprised at you, Mycroft. Weren't you watching the cameras last night? I thought for sure that you'd review them after we stopped Parliament from being blown sky high."

"I was busy! a number of people needed calming after realizing that they had been sitting over a bomb."

"Well, you'll see us on the news after you get back from _Les Mis_. Have fun!"

"Sherlock, you can't force me to sit through an entire opera with Mummy, you just can't!"

"You promised."

"Please. You are much better with them than I am. I can send a car."

"And deprive Mummy of your company? Impossible. Goodbye Mycroft."

"Sherlock!"

The phone clicked closed.

"Mycroft! It's time to go. You know father needs time to go to the washroom before it starts. His bladder isn't what it used to be."

"What it used to be."

"Oh Dear God!"


	8. 18 May, 2014

**_I._ ** _18 May_ _2014_

_Earthquake in Japan. The Pope ends his visit to India. Forecast: Sunny. A beautiful day for a wedding._

**II.**

Twenty minutes on the walker, completely winded, but the tummy does seem a wee bit tighter. The phone rings.

**IV.**

"Yes what, Sherlock?

"Why are you out of breath?

"Filing."

"Either I've caught you in a compromising position, or you've been working out again. I favor the latter."

"What do you want?"

"I need your answer, Mycroft. It's a matter of urgency."

"Answer?"

**II.**

The sounds of glass clinking in the background, happy voices... Sherlock is at a party. A party? Oh yes. How could I have forgotten?

**IV.**

"Today, it's today, isn't it? No Sherlock, I will not be coming to the ' _night do_ ' as you so poetically put it."

"What a shame, Mary and John will be extremely ..."

"...delighted not have me hanging around."

"Oh I don't know. There should always be a spectre at the feast."

**II.**

No. I can't go to John Watson's wedding. To see him binding himself to some woman. Happy. To have him frown when I enter the room. I haven't approached him. Not since... how could I? And I fear that even if Sherlock is too distracted with his own emotions to see, that Mary would notice. She is a very perceptive woman. She would surely see the envy in my eyes. The way I envy the ones who have won John's heart.

I can't believe that it is finally happening, Sherlock parting from John. I had better get the spare room ready. It won't be long before Sherlock needs a shoulder to cry on, so to speak.

**IV.**

"I suppose I'll be seeing a lot more of you from now on."

"What do you mean?"

"Just like old times."

**II.**

After Sherlock's speech about friendship, I had begun to wonder if I really was...lonely. Anthea was willing, but it never felt right, No point in destroying a working relationship in search of a dubious attachment.

It will be reassuring to see more of Sherlock though. Like a fine brandy, he has mellowed a bit with age. Even so, it is sad to see the old team break up. It's the end of an era.

**IV.**

"...I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter."

**II.**

A new chapter? Can he possible be so naive? Doesn't he know that John is leaving him for good?

Poor Sherlock. Someone needs to break the news to him.

**IV.**

"This is what people do, Sherlock, they get married, I warned you. Don't get involved."

"Involved, I'm not involved."

"No."

"John asked me to be his best man, how could I say no?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm not involved."

"I believe you, really, I do. Have a lovely day, and do give the happy couple my best."

"I will."

"Oh by the way, Sherlock, Do you remember, Redbeard?

"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."

"No, of course you're not. Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock."

**II.**

I lied when I told Moriarty that Sherlock's favorite childhood story was Hansel and Gretel. His favorite story was the tale of the two Barbarossa brothers, both known as Redbeard the pirate.

He loved the story so much, that he named his dog after them. Redbeard had to be put down in the end.

Oh! Sherlock must have been thinking of that when he said that he was not a child, of crying or perhaps being put down.

Sherlock cried and cried when Redbeard died, but that wasn't what I was referring to at all.

I was remembering a curly-haired boy in blue pajamas sitting in his bed while I read to him from The Great Book of Pirate Stories. When we would get to the part where the Sultan Soliman allowed his closest and best advisor Ibrahim to be killed by his woman, Roxalana. Sherlock would jump to his feet and yell. "He should have killed her! Ibrahim was clever. She was just jealous of him. I will never let emotions influence my decisions like he did."

"Ah, but love changes people. At least that's what they say."

"I'll never love anyone, then. I'll be like Redbeard ' _a body, a brain, and an intellect, without any trace of a heart.' "_

"An excellent ambition, Sherlock,"

It had been my own ambition as well. We would be two heartless pirate brothers ruling our own empire, and the whole of the civilised world would quail at the name of Holmes, or so we had thought. But now, Sherlock has broken his promise not to love. For it is obvious to the dullest observer that he loves John Hamish Watson as deeply as the Sultan had loved his Roxalana.

No, I won't go to the wedding. I can not bear to watch Sherlock's painfully earnest attempts to show his love to John by acting ... normal. I refuse to witness such a thing, just as I refuse to look at John, awash in appreciation of his new bride and his dearest friend, John, immaculately dressed in his tailored suit, John, warm, bright, and glowing on his wedding day.

I am the eldest. I must keep my mind clear, cold, and able to reason, and I will do so, even if it means cutting out my own heart.


	9. 22 May, 2014

 

**I.** _22 May, 2014_  
 _Prime minister sex scandal averted due to newspaper magnate pay off. Dead end on European counterfeiter fiasco, literally. Predicted high of nineteen degrees. Partly cloudy skies, clearing to full sun._

**II.** Not that I've had a chance to see the sun in last three days with the situation in the Balkans.

And now things have become even more difficult. Agent 2575 was found yesterday morning _sans_ head. There must definitely be a connection between the counterfeiters and the government. The fake money is being sent along official channels. It has been found in a number of European banks mixed with actual currency. If this is not stopped, it will lead to distrust in the Euro and may even threaten the World Bank.

I must text Anthea. The file for 2575 should be retired and placed in the secure archive. She was a good agent, very good. Such a shame to lose her. We need another agent. Someone just as good or better. Perhaps a specialist in counterfeiting. Someone that they would seek out. It would alleviate suspicion if they were the ones who instigated the connection. I must think on this.

But what's this on my desk? Oh yes, Sherlock's wedding speech. Margarete was at the wedding disguised as wait staff. She has an exceptional memory for speech and can recall and replay an entire days worth of conversations at will. Much better than an audio recorder. She was getting tired of diplomatic assignments despite her incredible usefulness at political summits. This undercover assignment was to be a treat for her. It also was designed to show her how very boring field work is, so that she wouldn't mind the soft assignments that she has been getting. And on the plus side, she actually does have a background in catering.

This transcript is long. Sherlock must have been flustered. He does tend to ramble on and on when he is excited. Strange. My first thought was that he would freeze up and say nothing. No... my very first though was that he wouldn't give a speech at all. Two years ago, the very thought of such a thing would have been a joke. I was surprised to find that he had agreed to it. But then again, for John Watson there is very little that Sherlock will not do.

_"Today we honor the death watch beetle that is the doom of our society..."_ Ha, ha! He's just insulted John, Mary, the bride maids, and God for that matter. But what is this? _"The bravest and kindest..."_ Oh my. Oh My!

_"The two people who love you most... We will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."_

Love! My brother has made a public confession of love. Amazing! I wouldn't have believed such a thing was possible of the boy who always shied away from public displays of affection. He's wanted people before, liked them even, but never in my knowledge has he ever admitted it, at least not publicly.

Why now? And why did he want me to witness his public confession of weakness? Does he suspect me? Does he know that I...

Of course he knows. How can he not know of my affection for John Watson. Sherlock has always been able to deduce my feelings. He is annoying that way. Oh, how he mocked me when I was infatuated with Alister Walliston, so rude. He told me that he was seeing Roberta Coone behind my back, and he was right. He is always right in such matters, unerringly so. So the fact that he is saying this out loud... is it a challenge to me? Why else would he confess weakness like this? Why not privately in his flat while alone with the man. So much time the two of them spend alone together, with only a loyal landlady below who would never tell their secrets.

John Watson has always been able to drive Sherlock to do things that are against his nature. They were even jailed for public drunkenness, Sherlock hates to drink! Well... he hates getting drunk, ever since that time at the Christmas charity ball when he was seventeen... ha, ha, ha! That was hilarious. He avoided the Royal Albert Hall for years after that.

But this is my vanity talking, my own delusion. I was never anything to John Watson. To him, I am simply Sherlock's older brother. One day, Sherlock and he might ... find each other, but John will never ... not with me, never with me. Why do I delude myself? Such a weakness, delusion.

Like Sherlock's delusion that John would remain close to him after he is married. He should know enough about human nature to know how unlikely that is. But perhaps that is the real reason for the confession. He has decided to bow out gracefully. To walk away if it will make John happy. Has Sherlock learned to be noble? Has he finally learned how to put another person's happiness before his own? Has he grown up, at last?

**IV.**  
Mycroft wipes a tear from his eye, then he quickly reads the entire transcript. At the end his mouth falls open, and he reads the ending again out loud. The words echoing against the walls of the empty office.

" _'Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you.'_ Did he really say...? Well, something must be done about that."

**II.**  
(He adjusts the knocker which has fallen askew again and enters the flat at 221B Baker street. )

Sherlock is difficult to talk to unless he is distracted by something inane. Perhaps we can discuss this over a hand of old maid. What is this? Has he been moving things. That scratch on the stairs, they've been recently swept. It can't be for me. Who is it that he wants to impress?

**IV.**  
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock calls out.

Mycroft enters the room avoiding the pile of books that Sherlock placed there to trip him. Sherlock is buttoning his coat. It is a new blue one, dashing and a bit too bright for him. He notices the absence of John's chair.

**II.**  
Where did he put it? In his bedroom perhaps or is it hidden away upstairs in the room that is sure to become a shrine to his lost love. Sherlock is always so dramatic.

**IV.**  
"Can you please say whatever it is that you have come to say and be on your way? I'm expecting someone."

"And a good afternoon to you as well, Sherlock. When will you learn proper manners?"

"When will you learn to stop binging on _petit fours_? You've already gained five pounds since I last saw you."

"Always so pleasant, Sherlock. You know why I am here."

"No, and I don't care. Leave now before my guest arrives."

"The wedding speech, what did you mean by that?"

"If you were so interested in the wedding, you should have attended it."

"I read the transcript. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"That it can't have been that important if it takes you over two days to respond."

" _'Whatever it takes, I swear that I will always be there.'_ Why on Earth would you say such a thing?"

"It is none of your business what I say or what I don't say, Mycroft. Besides, it's old news now."

"Have you learned nothing? What did we learn about making rash oaths? Please tell me that you don't plan to carry through with this promise."

The doorbell rings.

"And this is your cue to leave. Excuse me while I get the door."

Sherlock runs lightly down the steps. Mycroft frowns down at his umbrella as he listens to the conversation.

"Hi! Janine, what a pleasant surprise."

Was that the sound of a kiss on the cheek?

"Would you like to come up?"

"Sure."

Mycroft frowns at the sound of high heels on the step. What is Sherlock doing?

"Oh I'm sorry, you have company," the dark-haired woman says.

"Oh, that's only my brother, Mycroft. He was just leaving."

"Your brother?" she says smirking at Sherlock. "You mean that there are more like you? So pleased to meet ya, Mike."

"Mike?"

"That is what they call you isn't it, or is it Mikey? You can't expect me to believe that people call you Mycroft all of the time." She laughs. Sherlock laughs with her.

"Please, take a seat?"

"Wouldn't mind if I do."

"Mycroft, don't you have matters of State to deal with?"

"Sherlock, might I have a word with you in the hallway?"

"But I have a guest."

"It's okay, Sherl, I can wait while you talk to your brother. It will give me a chance to case your flat. Always an important thing to do."

Sherlock laughs again before following Mycroft into the hall and closing the door. His face becoming less animated as soon as the door shuts.

"John Watson..." Mycroft says quietly.

"Mycroft, leave now. We have nothing to discuss."

"Nothing to discuss?" he says, his voice rising involuntarily. "I think that we do."

"My actions are none of your business."

"They are when you endanger the both of us with dangerous declarations."

"Dangerous?"

"Of course, dangerous. You are a public figure now. What you say gets reported, and you have just announced your weaknesses to the world. You've pointed a finger to the Watsons telling all of your enemies to attack them to get to you. How could you?"

"It's time for you to leave."

"Couldn't you have done such a thing in private? God knows what else you've been up to behind closed doors..."

"Goodbye, Mycroft!" he said loudly grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the stairs.

"And what are you doing with that woman?"

Sherlock pushes him toward the banister and glares. Then his eyes fall and a look of terrible sadness crosses his face before he puts on his mask again and steps back into the room.

Mycroft frowns as he listens to the happy talk that the two of them are making, then he turns and walks slowly down the stairs.


	10. August 15, 2014

**_I. August 15, 2014_ **

_Another ceremony to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the Great War. Computer security leak in national train database. Newspaper magnate C.A. Magnussen being investigated for undue influence over the Prime Minister, and my little brother has started abusing drugs again._

**II.**

The surveillance cameras show it clearly. Sherlock entering a drug den. Why is my brother so predictably self destructive? So soon after John Watson's wedding and he is back to his old ways.

Caring isn't an advantage. As if I need another reminder of that.

Time to search his flat, but I can't use the police. Lestrade would have to send him to jail if he found evidence of the drugs that I am sure are at there. Who can I get to search that trash heap who might be able to...yes. That would work.

**_III._ **

_Police internal report. Phillip Charles Anderson. Forensic officer. Discharged. Leaking information. Paranoia. Founder of Sherlock Holmes fan club, The Empty Hearse. Home phone, personal phone. Yes._

**IV.**

"Hello, who is this? This is my private number."

"Mr. Anderson. This is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' older brother and I have a job for you and your...club if you are interested. I need you to search Sherlock's apartment for drugs. Will you be available?"

"Yesss!"

"Then meet me outside of his flat in one hour."

.

The phone rings

"Mycroft Holmes? Are you there?"

"John, so good to hear from you."

"Did you know that Sherlock is using again?"

"I have just been informed."

"Could you send someone to search the flat. I want it all gone by the time that we get there."

"I am already ahead of you."

"Good. Thank You."

"No thank you for watching out for Sherlock. It is always a pleasure to speak with you."

" Ah...well...goodbye."

"Goodbye John."

**II.**

John Watson, straight and to the point. How I respect military precision. It seems that we will be meeting again soon.

Sherlock and drugs, an unfortunately recurring conjunction. I had hoped that it was just a phase. No, I had hoped that he had been cured of the need for them. After he had met John Watson, his love affair with cocaine had seemed to wane. But that was to be expected. John is a doctor. He would never have stood for Sherlock's addictions.

I remember a time when John could control Sherlock with a touch and a whispered word. He directed him as a good rider handles a horse. Not to say that Sherlock was his pet. Far from it, but... If only I had half of John's ability to curb Sherlock's bad habits I would be a happy man.

Things were different after the fall. They still spend time together, yes, but John is more distant as if he is afraid that he will burn his fingers if he stands too close. He no longer presumes to direct Sherlock. Then again, he hardly needs to. Sherlock is constantly falling over himself to deduce John's wants before he feels them. I have never seen Sherlock so eager to please. It is terrifying to watch them. To see the way that they lean toward each other, but refuse to touch.

**IV.**

Mycroft lets them in with his key. Anderson takes the lead having been here before. The others gasp with infuriatingly predicable awe as he leads them around the living room and kitchen. They begin, oddly enough, with the microwave.

Mycroft slowly walks down the stairs. He sits on the steps to wait.

As he plays with his umbrella, devising the best pose to be found in, he notices scuff marks, and scratches on the paint. Not long ago someone lay here on the steps. He reaches between the slats and the wall and pulls out a single blond hair.

**II.**

John?

Of course, stag night. He must have fallen down drunk when he returned.

The two of them had gone from pub to pub. It made me smile to see the graduated cylinders sticking out of Sherlock's pockets. What a ridiculously absurd night that had been. Drunk and disorderly. I considered barely a moment before deciding to leave Sherlock where he was. Far be it from me to ruin Sherlock's special night with John. It had certainly been a night to make memories.

What's this? Another hair on the other side of the step, a curly black one.

John AND Sherlock? What were the two of them doing lying on the stairs together?

I thought that the highpoint of that adventure had been the night spent in gaol. Perhaps even before then, they had already made memories of another sort. Oh Sherlock, is this the real reason that you have so rapidly fallen back to your old ways? An assignation on the steps of the flat? Perhaps a stolen kiss? Then the wedding. Poor Sherlock. How his heart must be breaking. When John was here, Sherlock was high on love and friendship. But now he is gone. Time for big brother to step in.

Ah, they have finally arrived. The pose.

**IV.**

"Well then, Sherlock, back on the sauce?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I phoned him," John said.

"The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though in many ways cross-dressing would have been a wiser part for you."

"You phoned him?"

"Of course I bloody phoned him."

"Of course he bloody did. Now save me a little time, where should we be looking?"

"We?"

"Mr Holmes!"

"For God's sake! Anderson."

"Sorry Sherlock, it's for your own good."

"Oh that's him, isn't it? You said he would be taller."

**II.**

I don't know what it is about him, but the presence of Sherlock makes me want to challenge him. We dance around each other like peacocks about to fight. I know it's happening, but I can't stop myself from doing it. He is always attacking. I can't help but respond, can I?

**IV.**

"Some members of your little fanclub. Do be polite. They are entirely trustworthy and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you're pleased to call a flat. You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. you can't afford a drug habit."

"I do not have a drug habit."

"Hey what happened to my chair?"

**II.**

His emotions are even more evident when he is drugged. How can John not see how much his defection has hurt Sherlock? Best find the drugs quickly while John is here to distract him.

**IV.**

"What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing to find!"

"Your bedroom door is shut. You haven't been home all night, so why would a man who has never knowingly closed a door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"

"Okay stop, just stop, point made."

**II.**

He seems genuinely upset. John already knows about the drugs. What could possibly be in his room that he might at all mind John finding? Oh...yes...the girl. Has he really gone that far? Best offer a distraction. Mention our parents. Lead his thoughts away from the bedroom.

**IV.**

"Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line dancing."

"This is not what you think. This is for a case."

"What case could possibly justify this?"

"Magnussen, Charles Augustus Magnussen."

**II.**

Charles Augustus Magnussen?

When will my brother learn not to meddle in affairs that are beyond him? But first things first. There are witnesses. Damage control.

Good, I've scared them. Now for John.

**IV.**

"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well."

John narrows his brows and stares up at Mycroft. "Well I think that we both find that embarrassing."

**II.**

The bravery of the soldier. Yes it is stupidity. I can't help but be charmed by it though. And Sherlock, it's been years since I've seen him laugh this freely. Yes, the drugs certainly remove his masks. Perhaps he needed them to seem more normal to his woman. She must have certainly been charmed by him if she is sharing his bed. Surprising, but first, I must dissuade him from this reckless course.

**IV.**

"You go against Magnussen and you will find yourself going against me."

"Okay, I'll let you know if I notice."

**II.**

He's showing off. I change my mind. John is a bad influence on Sherlock.

**IV**

"Unwise, Brother mine."

Sherlock throws Mycroft up against the wall and pulls his arm up painfully behind his back.

"Brother mine, don't appall me when I'm high."

"Mycroft, don't say another word, just go. He could snap you in two, and right now, I'm slightly worried that he might."

**II.**

Yes, John has made Sherlock worse. I fear that his hopeless love for this man will take him completely outside of my control. Does he even have a clue what is happening? Of course he doesn't. Look at him, shoeing me away like a child. He knows nothing.

**IV.**

"Don't speak, just leave."

**II.**

I know that he is wrong for Sherlock. But when he stops to hand me my umbrella, I am reminded of how kind he can be. How can I be both disarmed and furious at the same time. No matter. I'm off. Go ahead and self destruct why don't you. It's out of my hands now.

Work, that is the answer to distracting thoughts. I'll ignore all thoughts of little brother.

**IV.**

It is late, and Mycroft's back is starting to hurt from his time spent at his desk when a priority call comes in.

"This is Mycroft Holmes. What is it?"

"It's your brother sir."

"My brother? What has he done this time?"

"I'm sorry sir, but... your brother has been shot."


	11. Sherlock is Dead

**_**I.** _ **

_Date? I don't know. It's dark and the traffic is too damn slow!_

****III.** **

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God. Oh, Sherlock!_

****II.** **

Sherlock was shot? By whom? Magnussen is not harmful. Not in that way. He wouldn't have shot Sherlock. The report said Magnussen did not see his intruder. Of course he did. He's just waiting for the right price. I'll have to have a word with him about that.

Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe it is time that we took him down. If he hurt my brother, then I will destroy him without mercy. I will fire bomb his house and burn Appledore to the ground. But first. Sherlock. How is Sherlock doing?

**IV.**

"My brother. How is he?"

"He's being rolled into the operating room now, sir."

Make sure that he is in the room with the observation theatre. I will be there in five minutes."

"Yes sir. I am telling them now."

**II.**

The traffic! I should have taken a helicopter. Should I call for one now? No, it wouldn't be faster at this point. If I cut across that alley, I would only have to walk about three blocks to reach the hospital. Should I get out? It's what Sherlock would do, but sadly I am nowhere as fit as my brother was... is. We're moving. Another red light. It's only one block away.

**IV.**

"Let me out here. I'll walk."

Mycroft climbs out of the car. He clutches his coat closed against the chill wind. Cars rush by. Horns blare, and tires splash water as Mycroft strides rapidly down the sidewalk. There are people all around him. He observes them even though he does not wish to.

**III.**

_Carpenter, late for work. Child wanting the candy in the store window. His mother, eager to get home. She is a school teacher who writes porn in her spare time. A woman, unhappy due to a failed love affair, food bag clutched in her hand containing icecream. A young man looking at her legs. She will never notice him, will never believe that others find her attractive._

**II.**

The pathos of the common man. How can Sherlock stand to watch it day in and day out?

Sherlock!

**IV.**

Mycroft walks into the emergency room moments before the car pulls up. He pulls his phone out.

"Where?"

"I'll meet you at the door, sir."

The assistant shows him to the entrance of the observation room The door is plain and white. There is a sliding sign beside it which says: **Operation in progress, No admittance.**

He has no problem passing signs labeled 'no admittance'. In fact, such signs have attracted him from a young age. He has always cherished the power to pass by signs that would hold back others, but here, on the threshold, he hesitates.

**II.**

What if... No. best go in and find out.

**IV.**

He turns the handle.

The room is wide and dark. Light spills in through the glass revealing a flurry of people around an operating table. There is someone in the room with him, standing beside the glass. John. Of course he would be here.

Mycroft moves forward to stand beside him. John doesn't even spare him a glance as he focuses his attention on the drama below. Despite the high angle, Sherlock is completely obscured by the heads of the doctors and nurses working on him. Sounds filter in through the speakers, voices agitated and a bit fatigued.

The doctor stands straight and steps back. The others follow his example, and Mycroft finally sees Sherlock. He is lying bare-chested on the table. He looks so vulnerable and naked. There is a small hole in the center of his chest.

"I'm going to call it," the surgeon says. "Time?"

The nurse turns to look at the clock and everything stops.

**II.**

**Sherlock is dead.**

**I.**

**...**

**III.**

**...**

**IV.**

**...**

**II.**

"It's beating!"

**II.**

Who was that? John? What is happening?

**IV.**

"It's beating! His heart is beating," John says rushing over to the intercom. He punches the button and yells into it, "He's alive! Look at the display. His heart!"

They all turn back to the body, flurry starting again. Mycroft notices that his mouth is open, so he closes it, frowning nervously as he clutches the handle of his umbrella much too tightly.

He waits, watching until it is clear that Sherlock is safe, that Sherlock will probably recover. He lets out the breath that he has been holding for all of this time and then steps back, turns and walks out through the door.

He waves away Anthea who is sitting outside waiting and walks down the hall toward the cafeteria. He purchases a coffee and sits at a small table seeing nothing as he tries to calm himself.

All of his channels seem to be off line. He hasn't felt this way since he was a boy. He had forgotten what it was like to look at the world sequentially, seeing only one thing at a time instead of many. Now he watches his hands wrapped around a cheap paper cup. The warmth seeps through his fingers. His thoughts are as slow as tectonic plates. In his mind's eye, he sees a boy with curly black hair climbing the high branches of a tree. The bright light of summer sun shines through the fluttering leaves which glow in lighter and darker shades of green.

_Sherlock was always so free-spirited and so careless._

Sherlock stepped on a thin branch which broke. He dropped, twigs snapping, refusing to hold his weight. Then his slide is stopped by a limb. He clutched it with his fingers as Mycroft ran toward him. His fingers slipped, and he fell onto Mycroft who caught him, falling to the ground under his weight, a knee jabbed painfully into his abdomen. He rolled on his side. Sherlock sat on the grass beside him.

Mycroft sucked in a breath. _"Sherlock, do be more careful. You could have broken something."_

Sherlock shrugged. _"Good thing you like to eat so much. If you were as thin as mummy, you wouldn't have been so soft to land on."_

_"A '_ thank you' _wouldn't go amiss,"_ he said clutching at his belly. Sherlock rose to his feet and dusted the twigs and bits of grass from his knees. He grinned and then began to run toward the house.

_"Thank you!"_ Sherlock yelled over his shoulder, _"For having seconds on that cake last week."_

Mycroft watched him retreat and wondered how often he would be there to catch him.

He had promised himself that he would always be there, but he hadn't been there today, and Sherlock had almost died.

.

Someone sat down in the chair across from him.

"Hello Mycroft,"

"John."

"Sherlock is stable now. They removed the bullet, and he's been placed in a recovery room."

Mycroft nodded not trusting his voice yet.

"The wound was clean, and the bullet missed the heart entirely. He should make a full recovery."

Mycroft looked up. Relief was in all of John's features. This conveyed Sherlock's state much more than words did. Mycroft breathed out.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked.

"He was shot."

"By whom?"

"I don't know. Someone had broken into Magnussen's office. He went ahead of me. I was looking after Janine, and then I heard a thump. I rushed up the stairs and saw Sherlock on the floor. Magnussen had obviously been knocked out. He was searching for his glasses when I came in. I asked him who did it, but he said that he didn't know."

"Sherlock saw who shot him?"

"Likely, yes."

"Did Magnussen shoot him?"

"I don't think so. There was no gun in the room when I arrived, and I was there moments after he had been shot."

"John, I don't think that I have ever said this to you before, but I am comforted... that is to say, it means a great deal to me that you were at his side. My brother is ... a difficult man, and he attracts danger like a magnet. It gives me great comfort to know that he has you as a friend."

John looked up at him, his lips twitching into a brief smile. His eyes were soft. Mycroft could see the fine worry lines around them, or perhaps they were smile lines. John was prone to both emotions.

John climbed to his feet and placed his hand on Mycroft's shoulder and suddenly he understood his fascination with John.

John was everything that Mycroft had wished to be to Sherlock: Loyal, dependable, a confidant, always there to catch him when he was in trouble. Mycroft had failed to be that person because he wasn't a trusting man. He wasn't a compassionate man. Try as he might, he would never be, could never be as good a friend to Sherlock as John Watson was.

He took a moment to marvel at this man who had left his best friend's bedside simply to comfort him in his grief.

John had been there when Mycroft hadn't. He had saved Sherlock with his hands and his skill. He had done what had been needed to keep Sherlock alive, and he would guard him from threat while he was here in the hospital. The person who had shot Sherlock was still at large. Whoever it was, they would live to regret that action.

"Someone tried to kill my brother. He may try again."

"Whoever it is, they won't get past my inspection," John said.

"Nor mine," Mycroft replied narrowing his eyes. Mycroft was not skilled at comforting people, but he was excellent at intimidating them. "I think that it is time that I called on Charles Augustus Magnussen."


	12. Later that evening

 

_I._   
_15 August, 2014, 9:44pm_   
_Sherlock Holmes, stable condition after near fatal accident. Weather, hot, or it will be for Magnussen when I get to him._

_III._   
_Charles Augustus Magnussen. Media giant and blackmailer extraordinaire. People under his thumb: Current prime minister, and three former ones. Heads of the three largest corporations in Great Britain and Ireland, and the top ten by income in Australia and New Zealand. Has three quarters of Europe in his pocket. Diplomatically untouchable. Physically... we shall see._

IV.  
The door opened and Magnussen looked up. He had a white bandage on the side of his head. Beyond the door, he could see his body guards being held back by men in black suits. He smiled.

"Mycroft Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You know why I am here. Tell me who shot my brother."

"Your brother, Sherlock Holmes? I am sorry, I saw that he was here, but I had been knocked unconscious and did not see who shot him."

"Poppycock! Tell me who did it."

"Mr Holmes, I have been through a trauma. You have no right to come into my place of business and demand anything. If it were known that you threatened me..."

"Mr Magnussen, do you think for one moment that you have any power to control me?"

"Ah! But I do have power over you, Mr Holmes, because I have knowledge that you seek."

"And what is it that you want for this information?"

Magnussen adjusted his glasses and looked at Mycroft Holmes. "How emotional you've become. I have heard you referred to as 'the ice man', but you are all fire today. Your little brother really _is_ your weak point, interesting."

"Who shot him?"

"You won't like the answer."

"Tell me!"

"I think that I will keep that information to myself."

"Then I'll find it out without you."

"By all means, do so. it will be so amusing for me. I can't wait to see what you'll do when figure it out." Magnussen threw back his head and began to laugh loudly. Mycroft turned on his heel and left.

On the way down the elevator, flanked by four of his security men, Mycroft barked orders into his phone. "I want full surveillance of Magnussen. Record all communications going in and out of his house. I want all ITV camera data of this building for the last day in my office by the time I get there, and Anthea, send a flower arrangement to Sherlock's room. Something bright."

II.  
Magnussen does not think that I will be pleased with the killer, therefore it is someone that I know, personally. 'I won't like the answer...' he says and laughs. What does Magnussen find amusing? Deception. Secrecy. Things that are evil or painful to others. Who do I know for whom shooting Sherlock would be unexpected, ironic, or painful?

John Watson comes to mind.

He was there. He had the opportunity. Could he have shot Sherlock? There was a time when I thought he might be Moriarty's agent, but there was no evidence to support that view. Could he have been deceiving us all of this time?

But it makes no sense. John was the one who saved his life. Then again, he did die. Maybe he didn't try that hard to save him. Just enough to allay suspicion.

But there was no gun on him at the hospital. I would have seen it. Could he have discarded it before then?

No. That's ridiculous. John would never... but then again, I didn't think that John would ever marry and leave Sherlock. One mustn't make assumptions. Caring is not an advantage.

What about Mrs Hudson? She has a great skill at deception. She expertly kept Ms Adler's phone concealed when being held by CIA agents. A skill that she honed while living with her late husband, no doubt. The bullet went straight in, no angling suggesting that the person who shot him was about...5 foot 4 or 5 foot 5. Mrs Hudson is too short.

John Watson is only a bit taller than 5 foot 5. It could still be him. But statistically, this suggest that the shooter was a woman.

Sergent Donovan? She has no love for Sherlock, but she is too tall.

Miss Hooper? She is about that height. Could he have spurned her affections so often that she wanted to kill him? If so, why chose this office to do it in?

No. The person who shot Sherlock must have come to see Magnussen and been interrupted. But why didn't she kill him outright? Why didn't she kill both of them? Did Magnussen threaten her? Say that something bad would happen if she killed him?

Why shoot Sherlock?

A ballistics report would identify the gun. I must know who did this!

IV.  
The phone rang.  
"Sir, Mr Magnussen's personal assistant is awake. She's in the same hospital as Sherlock. She was unconscious at the time of the shooting, but I thought that ..."

"Oh yes, Janine, very good thinking Anthea. Keep her under guard until I get there. No one else is to enter."

"But the nurses?"

"No one."

"Yes sir.

He punched the intercom.  
"Take me back to the hospital at once," he said before sitting back in this chair.  
"Yes, let us find out what Sherlock's _'girlfriend'_ has to say about all of this."

_I. The Hospital. 11:10pm_

IV.  
The room was small and private. Janine looked up as he came in.  
"Mike! I'm surprised to see you here. Where is Sherlock?"

"Yes, about Sherlock. Can you tell me what you remember? What happened?"

"Someone hit me, that's what."

"Who?"

"I didn't get a look, they came up from behind."

"Where exactly where you hit?"

Janine touched the back of her skull.

"The stroke goes up. The person who hit you was shorter than you are."

"Really? Well when I get my hands on whoever it was, I'll be sure to return the favor."

"Please tell me everything that happened that evening."

"Did Sherlock ask you to come? He didn't say what you did except that it was some government job. Do you work for the police?"

"Indeed not, but I must know. Please..."

"Okay, if you think that it will help then I'll tell you," Janine said as she shuffled her shoulders leaning further back on the pillows until she was comfortable. "You don't happen to have any tea do you? I'm a bit parched."

Mycroft pulled out his phone. "Tea please, two sugars, no milk."

  
"Right away, sir," Anthea replied on the other end.

"And biscuits? I like the lemon ones."

Mycroft sighed, "Lemon biscuits as well."  
Janine smiled and crossed her feet at the ankles.

"The story, if you please..."

"Well, alright. Mr Magnussen was going on a meeting, but it was canceled at the last minute so he was still in the office when Sherl arrived."

"Sherlock came to see you? Why?"

"Didn't he tell you? He proposed to me! He had a ring and everything. It was so unexpected. We've only been together a month."

"Sherlock proposed... Marriage?"

"Yes! I guess that will make you my brother in law."

"Ah..."

"Wonderful isn't it? Well, I had just buzzed the door to let Sherl into the elevator when I felt a pain on the back of my head, and then I woke up here."

"You don't remember anything else."

"No, nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why do you want to know, and where is Sherl?"

"Sherlock has been shot."

"What! Oh God! Is he dead?"

"Fortunately, no."

"Then I must see him. I am his fiancee."

"He is under sedation recovering from an operation. He cannot see you now."

"But who did it? Who shot him?"

"Could Magnussen have shot him?"

Janine frowned. Disgust crossing her face. "No. He would never dirty his hands with such a thing. Much easier to trick someone else into doing it for him."

  "Who?"

"I don't know. It's not what he would do. Someone must have been after Magnussen. There are so many people who want him dead."

"Do you want him dead, Janine?"

"I'm sorry. My feelings for my employer are not something that I want to share. Let's just say that I wouldn't be unconsolable if he were to die, but I would never do such a thing myself. If I was the type, do you think that he would have employed me?"

"Good point. Are you sure that you know nothing that would help us find the person who shot Sherlock."

"No, I'm sorry. But Mike, is Sherl going to be alright?"

There was a light knock and the door opened. Anthea entered with a plastic cup of tea, and a pack of lemon biscuits. Mycroft nodded in Janine's direction, and rose to his feet. Anthea placed the items on the table beside Janine.

"Thank you for your information, Miss..."

"Call me Janine. We are family after all."  
Mycroft gave half a smile and left followed by Anthea.

In the hallway, she turned to him. "Family? What did she mean?"

  
"It means that Sherlock has learned much more about how to manipulate others than I had ever imagined. John Watson's doing no doubt. Where is he by the way. Sherlock's room?"

"No, I saw him in the cafeteria."

"In the cafeteria, then who is with Sherlock now?"

"I don't know, sir?"

"Then go to his room and find out! I will see if I can find John Watson."

He found him on his way back, carrying a sandwich and a large cup of tea.  
"John!"

"Mycroft, you're back."

"Why aren't you with Sherlock? I thought that you were going to keep him safe."

"He's not alone. Mary is with him."

"Mary?"

"Yeah. She's keeping an eye on him while I get some food. I'll be staying here all night."

"Mary. Where has she been all of this time?"

"At the surgery. She had some paperwork to get done, so she went in after hours to finish it."

"Was anyone else there?"

"No, I don't think so. Why? Do you think that she's in danger too? What have you found out?"

"Nothing. I'll tell you as soon as I have news, and I will keep someone nearby to supply you with food, clothes, or anything that you need. I would like it if you would remain here for the time being until I have a chance to track the killer."

"He's not a killer. Sherlock is still alive."

"Yes, of course. By the way, the yard is likely to search your flat just in case the shooter was trying to gather some information that Sherlock may have acquired. If they do, there is a certain item in your possession that they may find. It might be expedient if one of my people recovered it first, don't you think."

"Item? Oh, that item."

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Where might I find it?"

"Under my bed."

"Really? How...quaint. I'll take care of that for you."

"Thanks Mycroft. I've got to go. I told her I'd only be gone a moment." Mycroft nodded and John jogged off toward Sherlock's room.

II.  
The ease with which he told me of the gun suggests that he did not use it to shoot Sherlock. We can easily see if the gun was recently fired, but I now know that it wasn't. John had no opportunity to return it to the flat. He has been under observation all of this time. But Mary... Hmmm, what do we know about Mary? How tall is she? Shorter than John, about five four, five five?

Now that is something that Magnussen would find ironic, although I personally don't find it that unexpected. I never could tell what kept her from killing Sherlock from the first moment he returned. I wonder if her alibi will stand up.

But Mary was alone with him just now. I must take a look in on him to make sure that all is well, then to find out more about Mary Morstan Watson.

IV.  
"Anthea, I'll be at the office all night. Can you please pick up a meal for me from the Diogenes? The salmon, I think."

"Yes sir. Do you want me to wait with you?"

"No Anthea, I'll need you well rested in the morning."

"Yes sir, but don't fail to call me if you need anything."

"I shall," he said before striding purposely down the hall to see his brother.


	13. 16 August 2014

 

**_I._ **

**_16 August 2014_ **

**_3:54AM_ **

**_Light rain._ **

 

**II.**

Ah! Here it is.

Mary Morstan daughter of Simon and Anna Morstan, died 10 October 1972. If Mary Watson is not Mary Morstan, then who is she?

Who would have a reason to take the name and identity of a dead British Child?

Someone who wanted to pretend to be a British Citizen. Who wanted to blend in with the masses of individuals who belong here, because she doesn't belong here.

Who has the skill set to steal an identity and to keep up the deception so well that it fools not only Sherlock Holmes but myself as well? No amateur, surely. An intelligence operative. Not current. No current intelligence protocols would necessitate marrying someone like John Watson.

Who then is behind all this?

 

**_III._ **

_Primary suspect - James Moriarty. evidence- Money, Motive, Resources, Demented sense of humor. However, he is confirmed dead. (Dispatch team to verify remains). Secondary suspect - Mary Morstan herself. Freelance agent. Marries as cover to avoid dangerous past (search databases. Rogue agents. Skill set suggests CIA, former KGB training. Deep cover operative, Assassin). Third suspect..._

  

**IV.**

"This is Mycroft Holmes. Status / Location - Mary Watson."

"One moment sir."

Mycroft taps his finger impatiently against the desk. Perhaps he should have asked status of his brother instead.

"Sir, she's at her residence."

"Is Dr Watson with her?"

"No sir. He's at the hospital."

"Have my car sent around at once."

"Yes sir."

He pushes a button on his phone. And listens for the ring. It rings again. "Hello ...sir?"

"Agnes, sorry to call so early but I'll need your services at the office. We have a number of protocols to set up. I am on route to check on my brother. I will need a task force ready to be deployed in one hour."

"Yes sir, one hour. We'll be ready."

"Good. So glad that I can count on you."

"Sir."

 

Mycroft hangs up the phone and starts walking toward the door. Then he pauses and turns to the picture of the Queen. There is a tiny switch on the base of the frame. He pushes it and the portrait slides aside to reveal a safe. He punches in a thirty-two character code, and the door opens. Reaching past the false papers in the safe, he pushes his thumb against the secondary lock, and the entire wall panel swings in to reveal a hidden room. He glances at the small desk, monitor screens, and computer, and then walks to a shelf and pulls open a drawer. Inside are a number of small items, gold-plated and monogrammed. He picks up a narrow gold writing pen and places it into his pocket before leaving the room and reengaging the lock.

 

**II.**

I trust my staff for my own safety, but best to be prepared for any eventuality. If she should threaten my brother in any way, a click of this pen and she will be injected with a small pellet of poison. She'll know what it is as soon as she feels it. No assassin worth her salt would be ignorant of the the murder of Georgi Markov in 1978. This poison, however is much faster acting although just as fatal. A bit Bond I know, but such things do have their uses.

 

**IV.**

He sets a guard and slips into Sherlock's room. John is dozing in the armchair. At the sound of the door closing he opens his eyes and sits up.

 "Mycroft?"

"John, has he become conscious yet?"

"He slips in and out. It may take several hours before he's able to talk coherently about who shot him."

"I see. I...I would like to talk to him for a moment in private if you don't mind."

John glanced at Mycroft with soft eyes. "Of course. I'll go get some tea, stretch my legs for a bit,"

"Thank you," Mycroft said with a nod. John nodded back, and closed the door behind him. As soon as he'd gone, Mycroft's face became hard. He pulled a chair up next to the bed and leaned over to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"Sherlock, Sherlock do you hear me?"

"Dear God, Mycroft, do you have to lean so close? You're spitting in my ear."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, a thin smile on his lips. "Brother dear, so good to see you awake."

"It was Mary, as I'm sure you've figured out by now."

"Mary Morstan died a stillborn infant. She was buried in Chiswick cemetery in October 1972."

"She warned me not to tell John."

"And have you?"

"Not yet. Not in a way that he understands."

"She won't let you reveal her identity. She'll kill you before you're well enough to talk."

"She might not. She might believe that I'll keep my word."

"Why on Earth would you think that? She shot you."

"In the heart. She could have shot me in the head."

"So."

"She had a choice. She could have killed me instantly, but she did not. Her shot missed my heart. She didn't kill me then, and she won't kill me now."

"We can't take that chance."

"I agree. I've got to get out of here. In the hospital I'm a sitting duck."

"I can transfer you to a military facility. Keep you safe."

"What about John? If I disappear there is nothing to keep her from killing him."

"We can capture him. Take him away too. Send him word about his wife."

"You can't just send him a note to say that his wife is an assassin. He'll never believe it. No, I have to be the one to tell him. "

"Sherlock, we are talking about someone who has tried to kill you once and failed. My first priority is your protection."

"She won't do anything while John is in the room. In the morning, I'll send him on an errand to get Lestrade. I'll get out before anyone notices."

"Might I remind you that you are still in critical condition. Trying to move will kill you as readily as that bullet did."

"I won't risk John getting hurt. Either you can help me do this, or I'll climb out of the window on my own."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You know that I will do this with you or without you."

"Fine. A nurse will check on you at ten forty three. Get John to go while she's still in the room. She'll be gone by ten fifty. Shift change is at eleven. The next nurse won't arrive until eleven thirty five. That gives us a forty five minute window to safely remove you from the hospital, and with the shift change, no one will notice the extra personnel moving about. Will that be acceptable?"

"Yes, but we can't have any suggestion that you know about her. I think I _will_ leave the window open just to confuse them. John always did have an elevated view of my abilities."

"We needn't go to such trouble, Sherlock. We can just make Mrs Watson... disappear."

"And if we fail? Then we will have a rogue agent on the run. One who has deceived all of us for months. No, she mustn't know that you suspect. Let me do this my way, Mycroft."

"All right, but there is more to this than simply one rogue agent, and I plan to find out what it is. The three of you are currently under my best surveillance."

 "Take hers away, Mycroft. John and I are fine, but none on her. She'll know. Promise. Promise me."

 "I think I hear footsteps."

 Sherlock grabbed his hand and lowered his voice. "If she suspects anything, John will die. Promise me that you'll call your agents off."

 "I promise, now sleep. He's here."

 

There was a gentle knock on the door and John walked in to find Mycroft leaning over Sherlock's bed holding his hand. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

 "No, quite all right. I'm done. Thank you again for staying with my brother. I must be going now."

 "Mycroft, you will catch this killer, won't you?"

Mycroft glanced at the bed, the limp figure of his brother laid out upon it. His lips turned down.

"You can be assured that the one who did this will come to justice one way or another."

 

 

As he walked down the hall, Mycroft glanced at the exits. He could get Sherlock out of this hospital unseen in less than nine minutes fifty-two seconds. So, despite his misgivings, he would help him escape because he didn't doubt that if Sherlock stayed here he would be dead within the week.

Sherlock believed that Mrs Watson didn't shoot him in the head because of concern for him. Sentiment. It was indeed sentiment, but of a different sort. If she truly did love her husband, how could she not see Sherlock as the rival he most certainly was? She shot him in the heart because that was the part of him that offended her. The part of Sherlock that metaphorically loved John Watson. Sherlock loved John and so she shot out his heart. The message could not be more clearly stated. 

So he would do what Sherlock asked, but promise or no, Mary Watson was now on the top of his domestic surveillance list, and as long as she was alive, she would likely stay there.


	14. 1 September 2014 - Detente

**_I._**

_September 1, 2014_

_Predicted high temperature 20C._

_Eighteen days to the Scottish referendum_

 

**IV.**

The machines beeped quietly as Mycroft sat beside his brother's bed reading the newspaper. They had offered to mute the sounds of the machines, but he preferred to hear them. The woosh of fluids and the beeps of blood pressure monitors allowed him to tell, without looking up, that his brother was alive. That was something that he had learned not to take for granted after the events of the last few weeks.

Mycroft folded the times to the crossword, and then glanced over at his brother.

 

**II.**

Sleeping peacefully, I see. Thank Goodness. Quite a blessing after two attempts to restart his heart, not to mention the broken ribs and internal bleeding. This morning's operation had been to repair the damage to the inferior vena cava and sew closed a tear in the diaphragm. There will most certainly be no more sneaking out of the hospital. Not if I have any say in the matter, and I do. When he awakes, I shall remind him of this fact. For some reason, Sherlock never can seem to remember that he is human.

I should have disregarded his wishes and whisked him away to that military hospital. Then again, I must admit that Sherlock's plan had worked. Instead of Mary going rogue again and using her assassin skills to do whatever it was that her hormone-laden mind suggested, she has stayed at their flat and gone on with her adopted life as though she really were the newlywed pregnant wife of a mild-mannered medical doctor.

But John is anything but mild-mannered these days. After learning about his wife's checkered past, John packed his things into his old army duffel bag and moved back to Baker Street. His emotional state now is almost as precarious as it was immediately after Sherlock's 'death'. Or it seems to be, if the reports are to be trusted. Reports of John drinking alone in pubs and walking the streets of the city at all hours of the night.

John did, however, return home to take his wife to visit her obstetrician. They are, it seems, attempting to maintain the fiction of a happily married life. I wonder how long this will continue, this state of... It isn't exactly peace. What is the appropriate word? Detente?

 

**IV.**

The crossword always took longer to fill in than it did to solve. Mycroft had answered the questions at a glance. He paused halfway through filling it in, wondering if he should bother completing it. He continued because, well, that's how things are done.

 

**_III._ **

_MOD spending report is to be released. Must tweak the pre-release figures to avoid revealing where MI6 money is going. Recall agents in Pakistan before planned military strike, or perhaps not. Have Agnes do an expendibility report on the agents._

_Meet with Her Majesty about the Scotland Autonomy vote. Reassure her that according to my predictions the Union will remain intact. The stability of the Euro is..._

 

**IV.**

The door opened and John Watson walked in head bowed. His shirt looking as if he's worn it for three days straight. His eyes, as if he hasn't slept in all that time. He stops dead when he sees Mycroft, legs crossed, looking up at him. Their silence shattered by the gentle sound of the door closing.

"Mycroft, good afternoon."

"And a good afternoon to you as well. It seems you need one after last night."

"How is he?"

"Recovering. And how are you?"

"The same."

"Ah yes." Mycroft said before returning to his crossword. John moved over to sit in the padded chair where he belongs. Where he should have been all this time.

 

**II.**

Finally, John has returned.

When Sherlock had collapsed again after his trip to Baker Street, John had stayed at his side. Then, when he was sure to recover, he had left the hospital and moved his things, but he did not return.

Why not? Was it guilt, anger, fear. His look just now suggests that shame was part of it. Then again I knew that much from the surveillance reports, from the number of times that he looked up at these windows and walked past. Anger was also a factor then.

When did I begin to expect that John would always be here? When did I start to believe that John's place was at Sherlock's side? They fell together so naturally. It was almost enough to make one believe in fate. I still don't know if he is the making of my brother, or his ruin, although recent events suggest the later.

Now John Watson is a broken man. A living illustration of the motto 'Caring is not an advantage'. Will Sherlock get the message? Of course not. He's not the smart one, I am. He needs to rest and let his big brother handle things from now on, the way I used to.

He looks so frail and thin. It reminds me of when he was seven and he got the flu. I sat beside his bed all night cooling his fevered forehead with iced clothes. I don't know why I feel the need to protect him so strongly, but I do, and it isn't just for him. Loving Sherlock reminds me that I am still human, that I am not simply a machine of state. He reminds me of my own mortality, with his propensity to attract violence as well as his morbid desire to decorate with skulls. Caring for Sherlock is the one thing that keeps me from becoming a monster. Perhaps Sherlock feels the same way about John. John, on the other hand, just feels.

My time is up.

 

**IV.**

Mycroft rose to his feet and folded the newspaper under his arm. He took his umbrella in hand and made ready to go.

"John..."

Mycroft looked over at John to see that he had fallen asleep in the armchair. He felt a pang in his chest as he saw him. His face had softened and relaxed. It was as if he had been pursued by furies, and had only now found rest at Sherlock's side.

Mycroft picked up the spare blanket from the edge of Sherlock's bed and draped it over John. Then he turned, and with one glance backward, he left the room and went back to his work.


	15. 4 December 2014

**I.**   
_4 December, 2014_   
_International Summit on the Afghanistan issue begins. Call for Home Office to change immigration quotas in response to Syrian refugee requests. Ministers begin their pre-election maneuvering in earnest. Lord Smallwood's sexual dalliances announced in Magnussen newspapers._

**IV.**  
Mycroft ran his fingertips across the red fabric on the arm of John's chair as he sat across from Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. He tapped the carpet with the tip of his umbrella examining the stains which told of chairs being moved and replaced, as well as showing the evidence of many takeaway dinners. As always, Sherlock's home was a layer cake of clues revealing a dusty domesticity of the sort that father would approve. Mother, of course, would insist that he clean it.

Sherlock frowned at the newspaper and then tossed it angrily to the floor. Mycroft thought of saying nothing, but he never could resist with Sherlock. "I told you not to go against Magnussen," he said.

"I may have just been released from the hospital, but I can still throw you up against the wall if you _Don't Shut Up!_ "  
"Lady Smallwood should not have come to you. There are some fish that are simply too big to catch."  
"I don't want to catch him, I want to stop him, but he defies me at every turn. I thought that he used a heads-up display, but I found that his glasses are simply that, glasses."  
"You must leave Magnussen alone."  
"Why? He's not going to leave me alone. He knows about Mary."  
"If he was going to talk wouldn't he have done so by now?"  
"That's not the way he works. Look what he did to Lady Smallwood. He knew about Lord Smallwood for months, but he only now released it to the papers. He likes to watch people wriggle. He wants to cause as much pain as possible. He will calculate the worst time to tell the police about Mary."

"Is that what you expect him to do? Tell the police?"

"Perhaps, what do you think he will do?"

"I'm more concerned about Mary. She's being very quiet."

"Yes, I think that she is waiting until after the baby is born to make her move. John has been going with her to her doctor's visits. I believe that she expects him to return to her when the baby is born."

"And will he?"

"Possibly... probably... John has always wanted a family."

"And if he doesn't return to her?"

"That could, potentially, be very dangerous for us both."

"You will be happy to know that I have some of my best men watching this flat. I have no intention of giving her an opportunity to strike again. Even so, we have yet to see the limits of her skill."  
"About that...here," Sherlock said leaning forward as he passed a USB stick to Mycroft, who took it.  
"And what is this?" Mycroft asked holding it up briefly before putting it in the pocket of his waistcoat.  
"Mary's past, or at least what she will admit to."  
"How did you get it?"  
"Mary gave it to John, and I made a copy of it while he was asleep."  
"You've read it, of course."  
"Of course."  
"It will be interesting to see how it matches up with my information about her. Would you care for a copy of her file?"  
"If it wouldn't be too much bother, but only when John isn't here. He hasn't seen it yet."  
"How long has he had the data stick?"  
"Since the day I first left the hospital."  
"And he didn't read it! Ah, she asked him not to."  
"She said that he wouldn't love her anymore if he did."  
"And as a romantic, he would rather keep his love pure than know the truth. How... interesting."  
"You know that you secretly wanted to say, _'How stupid'_."

"It is never wise to operate in ignorance of the facts."  
"I knew that you were about to say that."  
"Of course you did. You have known me your entire life. When have I ever willfully chosen ignorance?"  
"Never. And that is a tool that I use constantly to my advantage."  
"Whatever do you mean?"  
"If you didn't have that insatiable need to know how to do everything then I would never have been able to talk you into playing children's games with me."  
"That isn't because I want to know how to do everything, Sherlock. That's simply my desire to show you your place."  
"How refreshing to hear such honesty after the fairy tales that you told me when I was in hospital. I'm better now, so tell me. What are your plans for Mary?"  
"What do you mean, plans?"  
"I know that you're planning something."  
"I am doing absolutely nothing about the viper in your best friend's bed."  
"And you had better continue to do nothing."  
"Or what? Sherlock, what are _you_ planning?"  
"You didn't answer my questions. I see no reason to answer yours."

"You must know by now that you can't trust Mary," Mycroft said frowning as he rolled the tip of the umbrella around the edge of his shoe.  
"And you must know that I have sworn to protect her, and I will do so even if it means going against you," Sherlock replied.  
"I would think that Mary would understand that the rules changed the moment that she decided to shoot you. She won't expect you to protect her after that, Sherlock."  
"But John will. He's not the kind of man to take an oath lightly. Not for himself, and not for his friends. I won't forsake him."  
"Let us hope that it never comes to that."

Sherlock fell silent then, so Mycroft leaned back in the chair and looked toward the kitchen.

II.

If John were here, he would have brought us tea by now. But I came at this time precisely because I knew that he would not be here. It has been difficult to find anytime that they are not together. John has been especially protective of Sherlock since his return to Baker street. Guilt, I suppose, that the woman whom he brought into their lives almost killed his best friend.

Perhaps I could ask Mrs Hudson to make us a pot.

IV.

"Appledore."  
"What about it?"  
"Get me inside so that I can see the vaults?"  
"And how exactly do you expect me to convince Magnussen to let you do that?"  
"You must have something that Magnussen wants?"  
"All Magnussen wants is power."  
"Then perhaps you could give him some."

Mycroft frowned then and drove his umbrella into the carpet before looking up at Sherlock.  
"I hope that you are not trying to imply that I, Mycroft Holmes, should endanger the security of this nation by giving even the smallest bit of power to Magnussen. You can not stop men like him by giving them power. Give him a taste of power, and he will only want more."  
"Is more power what you want then? Is the British Government too small a stage for Mr. Mycroft Homes?"  
"I will say this once and only once. I will give nothing at all in trade to Charles Augustus Magnussen. He could hang and quarter Mary and the baby and I would not lift a finger to stop him. Do I make myself clear?"  
"Very."

Both of them turned their heads at a sound from below. "I hear a key in the door. I suppose that is my signal to leave."  
"If you insist."

Mycroft rose to his feet, and looked down at Sherlock who looked simultaneously confident to be back in his own flat, and frail after his months of hospitalization. An image flashed in his mind of a little boy recovering from the flu. He turned toward the door at the sound of John's footsteps on the stairs.

"Sherlock," John said entering the flat. His steps slowed as he noticed Mycroft was in the room. He stood by the door as he removed his gloves and nodded. "Mycroft," he said.

Mycroft puffed up his chest and walked forward holding out his hand. "A pleasure to see you again, John."  
John shook his hand, and then looked toward Sherlock. Mycroft could almost see the thoughts passing between them. _"What's going on. Is it something about Mary?"_ John asked with a raised eyebrow and a slight tilt of his head. _"It's fine,"_ Sherlock replied with a wrinkle of his nose and a lowering of his eyes.

John walked away then to hang up his coat, and Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock. "Oh and Mummy expects you home for Christmas Dinner. Festivities start at eleven."  
"Are you coming too?" Sherlock asked placing his fingertips together.  
"Of course. Mother wants to have a traditional Christmas dinner to welcome you back to health."  
"Since when have we ever had one of those?"  
"I know, but it is useless to oppose Mummy."  
John walked over to stand beside Sherlock's chair. He looked down and said in a low voice, "How are you feeling? Any pain?"  
Sherlock craned his neck to look up at him and smiled briefly. "I'm fine, John," he whispered before raising his voice and turning his head back to face his brother. "Mycroft here was just inviting you and Mary to Christmas dinner at my parent's house. Can you come?"  
"I was doing no such..." Mycroft began, but Sherlock cut him off.  
"Well can you come?"  
"I...I'll ask her. It might be a good time for... talking."

Mycroft glared at Sherlock.  
"Weren't you leaving?" Sherlock said. "You must have countries to spy on. Wouldn't want to delay you."  
Sherlock glanced aside at John who was standing beside him. John's fingertips were on the arm of Sherlock's chair, his middle finger just touching the edge of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's expression had just a hint of smugness as he watched Mycroft's eyes glancing at it.

Mycroft grasped his umbrella handle a bit tighter.  
"The car will pick you up at nine. Please don't make Mummy wait. She gets so cross if the dinner gets cold."

Mycroft walked toward the stairs. He stopped at the door and looked back.

**II.**  
How dare he bring a trained assassin to Christmas dinner with our parents.  
I would try to talk him out of it, but to what end? He is such a stubborn child. If John and Mary don't come, then he won't either and mother will be heartbroken.

Look at how unified they are. Sherlock is sitting taller in his seat, and he can hardly hide his smile. John's foot is forward, primed to move between us if needed. I can't tell if John is trying to protect me from him, or him from me.

**IV.**  
"Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherlock said with a smile.

Mycroft turned then, and walked down the stairs.

**II.**  
He doesn't have to flaunt it. I'm not blind.

It doesn't matter anyway.

I don't need a goldfish.


	16. Christmas Day - Goldfish

_**I.** _

_25 December 2014_

_Christmas Day_

_Overcast, no rain_

**II.**

Oh look! "The gang's all here," as the American's say. Sherlock, John, Mary and ... Good God! He's brought one of his homeless with him? As if bringing an assassin to Christmas dinner wasn't bad enough. Nothing to do about it now. Best put on a brave face.

**IV.**

"John, Mary, Welcome to our humble abode," Mycroft said in his most jovial voice.

"Out of the way, Mike. Let the Watson's come inside." His mother said shooing him away from the door. "Happy Christmas! Oh my! Looks like we'll be expecting another Watson any day now. You must be exhausted, Mary. I remember when I was pregnant with this old boy," she patted Mycroft in the stomach with the back of her hand, "I was constantly needing a lie down. Come in and take a seat by the fire. Sherlock! Take their coats."

"But I just got here, Mummy! Can't Mycroft do it?"

"I've got them," Their father said nimbly stepping forward to take Mary and John's coats. He left Sherlock to put up his own. Sherlock stared for a moment at his father's tie, and then rolled his eyes. Mycroft smirked back in shared horror at their father's horrible taste. He wouldn't tell Sherlock about the musical socks. Some things must be witnessed first hand to be believed.

"I was just about to begin the potatoes. Sherlock, come and help me."

"But Mummy, I want to show John my room."

"You can play with your friend anytime. Come into the kitchen. It's been ages since you've been here, and I want to have a look at you."

Sherlock shrugged and followed her, flinching as she wrapped him up in a hug. He tried to get away, but Mummy won out, and so he stood there pouting until she got her fill and released him. "Now sit down and tell me all about what you've been doing up in London."

"I've been in hospital. I haven't been DOING anything."

"Except driving the nurses insane," Mycroft muttered.

"What is that?" Mummy asked.

"It was nothing," Sherlock said. "She already had schizophrenic tendencies. She would have gone over eventually even without my help."

"Boys," father called from the other room. "Can you bring us some wood, I want to start a fire."

"Both of us?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft complained. "Must you continue to refer to us as children? I'm over forty!" But they relented in the face of their mother's stern look.

.

In the quiet brightness of Christmas Day the two of them gathered wood from the wood pile.

"You look better," Mycroft said as he watched his brother bending over to pick up a log."

"You look heavier," Sherlock said handing two logs to Mycroft. "Here. Carry some more. God knows you could do with the exercise."

"You never did like carrying things. I remember the time when you strapped wood to the sides of your dog so you wouldn't have to carry it in yourself."

"His name was Redbeard."

"He was a pet, Sherlock. It's not my job to keep track of all of your pet's names."

"You can't possibly find that taxing. There was only the one. Besides, didn't you used to have a pet once? A snake... what was his name?"

"Oroboros."

"Yes, that's right. He was a python or something."

"An Albino Boa Constrictor. Quite rare. And _she_ was female."

"They say that pets grow to be like their owners and owners their pets. I think that I can see the resemblance. Your fangs are showing," Sherlock said before walking through the door into the house.

"You know very well that Boas don't have fangs," Mycroft said following him.

**II.**

Oroboros.

It's been ages since I said that name. I remember when I first got her, a snow white Boa with just a hint of pink diamond on her tail. She was as thin as my thumb. Pale and beautiful and silky. I would feed her frogs from the garden and mice from the back steps. Years I had her until she got to be so big that she outgrew her tank and I let her climb on the top of my bed frame. She scared Mummy so badly that afterwards I had to change my own sheets.

I loved that snake.

**IV.**

Mycroft walked into the study to see Father taking the wood from Sherlock and piling it carefully into the fireplace. Mycroft stacked his wood on the floor beside them and then turned to look around the room.

Mary was sitting on the couch. She was dressed in red and green as if the bright colors would act as camouflage among all of the Christmas decor. It seemed to be working. The homeless man was walking around the edges of the room examining all of Mummy's curios. Mycroft made a note to count them before he left. Then the homeless man turned his head to look at Mary.

**II.**

Ah, I see why this man is here. His job must be to watch Mrs Watson in case she does something suspicious. Commendable of my brother, but unnecessary. I have a tactical response team on speed dial ready to come at my command. Hopefully, there will be no need for that. Mummy would be so cross if they trampled her hydrangeas.

Besides, I don't think that she'll strike today, and if she does, I still have the pen in my pocket.

**IV.**

Mrs Holmes stormed into the room.

"Sherlock! I thought that you were helping in the kitchen."

"But Mummy..."

"Don't ' _but Mummy_ ' me. Come and help," she said grabbing his hand and all but pulling him out of the room. Mycroft smirked. Then he realized that if he stayed in the room much longer he might have to talk to Mary, so he left.

**_III._ **

_Mary, Father, Homeless man - Study. Mother, Sherlock- Kitchen, John ..._

**IV.**

Mycroft found John in the living room. He was sitting on the couch in Father's seat, looking toward the candles on the coffee table but not appearing to see anything as he idly rotated a USB stick in his hand. He looked up when Mycroft entered, focusing on him with blue eyes dark as the North Sea before turning away and placing the data stick in his pocket. He sat back then resuming his vacant stare.

**II.**

What is he thinking of? What else? Whether or not to take back his wife. I know what I would do, but John Watson and I are very different people.

Why, I think that this may be the first time that the two of us have been alone in a room together since... 2012. That night in the Diogenes club. I did what I had to do, for Sherlock. I knew that saying those things would probably make John hate me. What I didn't know was that I would care that he did.

**IV.**

Mycroft turned away then and walked toward the window.

**II.**

Nothing is happening outside, but then again, nothing ever happens here.

I have work that I could be doing instead of boring myself to death in the midst of this domestic farce. There's nothing to do here, no one to talk to. Well, no one worth talking to. Perhaps Sherlock is right. Perhaps things would be better if I had a...goldfish. Then I would have someone to accompany me to these functions and keep me from going totally insane. But where would I find someone who I could even tolerate spending time with?

There's my assistant, Agnes.

Last night as she was leaving for her Christmas break, she stood beside the door just a moment too long. She was stunningly beautiful in green velvet with a black fur stole that matched her hair. I could tell that she was waiting for me to do something. I could have walked up to her and kissed her softly on the mouth. I could have run a finger down her neck. She wouldn't have objected. She doesn't exactly fancy me, but she's not adverse to the possibility of a relationship. She's made that much clear. I can imagine the sensation of her body against mine, the feel of my fingers in her perfectly sculpted hair.

I could have brought her here to meet Mummy and Daddy. She would have looked so charming beside the Christmas tree and Mummy would be so pleased. She would probably make a joke about grandchildren.

I could have kissed her, but instead I wished her a Merry Christmas and added a generous bonus to her check. In truth, the thought of kissing her makes me feel cold. I would really be The Ice Man if I let her believe that I felt that way about her. She is my work. Mixing work and pleasure seems wrong. Besides, women aren't really what I prefer.

I am not without passions. I just don't let them rule me, nor do I repress them like Sherlock does. He doesn't realize that when you repress your needs they will spill out, expressing themselves one way or another. The way to avoid that is to allow yourself to indulge occasionally once the consequences of your actions have been calculated and the allowance seems acceptable.

I think that it might be ... comforting to have a companion. He wouldn't be as smart as I am, obviously, but if he were reasonably intelligent and moderately attractive it might work.

If I were to bring someone home with me, he would have to be intelligent. Someone with a security clearance, or the ability to get one. Someone who was not part of my work, but was loyal to Great Britain, who could not be bought. Someone brave who could resist torture. Someone strong, and yet kind. But where would I ever find someone like that?

**IV.**

At that moment John let out a sigh. Mycroft turned toward him.

He was leaning back now, his legs stretched out beside the table. Mycroft walked around the room and lowered himself into the red overstuffed chair. It was more comfortable than standing. It also gave him an unobstructed view of John Watson. Mycroft crossed his legs.

**II.**

Dr. John Hamish Watson. Former Captain in the Northumberland Fusiliers. He has never knowingly revealed secrets even though he has been kidnapped by the likes of villains such as James Moriarty. He is strong under pressure, unerringly loyal, and he believes in Queen and Country. At heart, he is still a soldier, and yet he is also kind. The data in his file suggests that John is well above average as a lover. He has had conquests on at least three continents, and none of his partners seem to have voiced any complaints. Also, despite his constant assurances to the contrary, evidence suggests that not all of these partners were of the opposite gender. It shouldn't be too difficult to get him a security clearance.

**IV.**

John glanced toward him, shifting to sit properly in his seat. Then his eyes unfocused as thoughts flitted across the surface before he turned his head away again.

Mycroft clasped his hands, looking at John over the top of them before touching his knuckles to his lips.

**II.**

There is one fact about John Watson that is certain however. He is currently very, very unavailable. In fact, I can tell by the look in his eye and the unconscious way that his hand is resting on his abdomen that he has decided to go back to Mary. When he does, he will go back outside of our security wall, and he will be lost.

So, back to the problem at hand. If I were to imagine that I had such a person here with me now. What exactly would we do? We certainly couldn't talk of anything classified with a rogue spy and an unknown vagabond in the house. Yet it would be enjoyable to have someone here who understands me. I could show him the house, and when we reached the back stairs, I could push him against the wall and kiss him, and that wouldn't feel cold. No, it would be very warm indeed.

I can almost feel his thin lips pressed against mine, as I bend down and wrap one arm around his waist pulling him closer. I would push aside his blazer and draw circles over his nipple. My fingertips stroking that awful polyester cotton blend shirt as I raise my hand to trace the edge of his scar...

Ah!

How embarrassing.

Then again, he has proven that he can be... discreet if need be. John never told Sherlock how often we met to talk about him. Sherlock may have suspected, but John never told. And I never told him that the night before he fell, John came to see me... first.

John and Sherlock. So much emotion under the surface between them, and neither of them able to simply say what they feel. I can't help thinking that if I were in Sherlock's place, I would have already had him by now.

Stop. That's enough time fantasizing. Best see what Mummy and Sherlock are up to.

**IV.**

Mycroft pushed himself to his feet and went to the kitchen.


	17. Christmas Day - Brotherly Feelings

**_I._ **

_25 December 2014_

_Christmas Day_

_2:00pm_

**IV.**

Mycroft looked down at his watch and sighed. "Oh dear God! it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas day for at least a week now. How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony."

"Mikey, is this your laptop?" Mummy asked.

"Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes, and you've got potatoes on it."

"Well you shouldn't leave it lying around if its so important."

"Why are we doing this? we never do this."

"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy."

"Am I happy too? I haven't checked."

Sherlock was sitting quietly reading the newspaper while Mycroft and mother squabbled.

It was a reversal of tradition as usually Sherlock was the one who couldn't sit still.

The homeless man startled Mummy then by offering her some punch, and after a discussion about his odd inheritance beliefs, Mummy left the room to give Mary her tea.

Mycroft rose to his feet. "This day is intolerable! I'm going out for a fag."

"Have some punch before you go," Sherlock said. "I'll join you in a moment."

The strange homeless man held out a glass and Mycroft took it. He took a sip and then placed it on the table before walking through the house and outside.

Standing beside the front gate, Mycroft patted his coat pockets down.

**II.**

Damn! I was sure that I had my cigarette case before.

Without a dose of nicotine I'll never make it all the way through to dinner. If I wasn't concerned about Mummy and Daddy getting robbed and murdered, I wouldn't have bother to stay.

What possessed Sherlock to invite the Watsons to dinner? Mary Watson should never have met our parents. Why did I let Sherlock convince me to allow it?

I've gone soft.

**IV.**

The front door opened then, and Sherlock came out. His skin was a healthy color instead of the pale white it had been in hospital. Mycroft smiled with his eyes, but he didn't let the expression reach his mouth. "I don't appear to have brought my cigarettes," Mycroft said.

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out Mycroft's gold cigarette case. He took out one and then held it open while Mycroft took his.

"Still practicing petty theft, I see."

"And you still can't catch me at it," Sherlock said with a smirk.

Mycroft took the case from him and pocketed it before lighting Sherlock's cigarette and then his own. He took a puff and blew the air out again before saying, "I should point out that having just recovered from a severe injury, you really shouldn't be smoking."

"Let's save the discussion of what might or might not kill me in the future to another day shall we? I've already died once this year."

**II.**

Yes, he did die. And I have never been more shocked in my life.

I had known that there was a possibility that he would die when he was undercover destroying Moriarty's net, but somehow I never really believed that it would happen.

Illogical, I know, but like the members of his fan club, I almost came to believe the myth that Sherlock Holmes would never die.

It wasn't until I saw him on that operating table looking like a fragile child with a soul that was only a hair's breath away from leaving this word forever that I remembered that he was made of bones and blood like any other man.

In my heart, I imagined him to be a legend like King Arthur, or a great hero like St. George and the dragon. For Sherlock has always been able to do the things that I never could do, because he is willing to take the risks that I never would.

**IV.**

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business."

"Are you?"

"I'm still curious though. It's hardly your usual kind of...puzzle. Why do you... hate him so?"

"Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't you?"

"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far to intelligent for that. He's a business man that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay."

"A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?"

"No. It's what you think of yourself."

The door opened then and the two of them struggled to hide their cigarettes as Mummy called out "Are you two smoking?"

"No," Mycroft said.

While Sherlock said "It was Mycroft!"

Mother frowned at them both and went inside not fooled at all. As soon as she was gone they resumed smoking as if she had never been there.

"I have, by the way a job offer I would like you to decline," Mycroft said.

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?"

"M.I.6, they want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in ... I think about six months."

"Then why don't you want me to take it?"

_How flippant!_ Mycroft thought turning to face him. "It's tempting, but on balance you have more utility closer to home."

"Utility, how do I have utility?" Sherlock asked.

"Here be dragons."

**II.**

What's in this cigarette? I feel light-headed.

**IV.**

"This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in."

"You need low tar," Sherlock said. "You still smoke like a beginner."

**II.**

After all this time, Sherlock still doubts me. He doubts himself.

And I almost let him die without ever having told him how much I love him.

**IV.**

Mycroft stopped in front of the door.

"Also..." he said. _I should tell him while I have the chance._ "Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock coughed. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"

"Merry Christmas?" Mycroft replied.

"You hate Christmas."

"Yes, perhaps there was something in the punch?"

"Clearly, go and have some more."

Mycroft walked into the house feeling lighter of heart but a bit disoriented in mind.

Confession had somehow made him feel tired. He sat at the kitchen table at put down his head as he hadn't done since he was a child. "Mummy, I'm not feeling well," he said before everything around him went black.


	18. Christmas Day - Oroboros

**_I._ **   
_25 December 2014_   
_Christmas Day_

**II.**  
What? Where am I? Why am I asleep at my parent's house? I never fall asleep in a room with other people present. Something is wrong.

**IV.**  
Mycroft blinked his eyes and his vision began to clear. The homeless man in the maroon sweater pushed a glass of water toward his hand.  
"Here, take some water. It will help with the dry throat," he said.  
Mycroft ignored the glass and pushed himself to his feet. His mother was asleep in a chair.  
"Mummy, Mummy, wake up." He felt the pulse on her neck.  
Mrs Holmes turned her head toward him and patted his hand. Her eyes were still closed. "Mycroft, there you are," she said. "I must have dozed off."

Mycroft looked back at the man whom Sherlock had brought into their house, and then he glanced at the punch heating on the stove.

**_III._ **   
_Me, Mummy, Man who drugged us, - Kitchen ...  
_

**IV.**  
"Mary!" Mycroft said suddenly rushing out of the room.

He glanced at his father sleeping on the couch as he passed through the living room but he did not stop. He opened the door to the study and rushed in to find Mary sleeping soundly in a chair. He stared down at her rounded belly and her chest moving slightly up and down. Then he turned at the sound the door opening. The man in the maroon sweater had entered.

"She's doing fine. I made sure that it wasn't enough to hurt the little one."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Gone. I don't know where."

**II.**  
Of course. He's gone to see Magnussen, the fool!

**IV.**  
Mycroft stepped back into the hall and looked at the coat rack noticing two coats and a scarf missing. He reached into his pocket then and pulled out his phone.

"Mycroft Holmes, here. I need a pick-up from my parent's home. Priority one. The address is on file. I also want a fully armed response team at the gates of Appledore as soon as possible. Code Five Five Alpha."

"Acknowledged."

Mycroft closed the phone. He put on his own coat and scarf, then he took a moment to check on his father's health before passing through the kitchen and out of the back door of the house.

"Mycroft? His mother asked, "What's going on?"  
"It's Sherlock!" he said letting the door shut behind him.

Mycroft strode out onto the lawn, and looked up at the sky impatiently as he put on his gloves.

The chill cold air helped him to clear his mind from the effects of the drug.

**_III._ **   
_Nearest airport, ten minutes away. Official pilot would take two minutes to notify, Six minutes to get to the helicopter and begin a check. Then again it is Christmas. He's probably having an eggnog, so make it eight minutes. Counting the delay the helicopter won't get here for another twenty minutes. DAMN!_

_Luckily the tactical response team was already on call. Give the caller five minutes to get through chain of command. The team will be getting their orders just about now. They'll go by ground transport. So, thirty to fifty minutes at best to get there. It being Christmas, the traffic should be light, so favor the lower estimate..._

**II.**  
Charles Augustus Magnussen. Why did I ever believe that Sherlock had lost interest in the case. I know how single minded he can be. What is he going to do? What ever it is, I know it's sure to be something stupid.

Wait! Where did I put it?

**IV.**  
Mycroft rushed back into the house. He searched the kitchen table moving the bowl of potatoes and the cake in his search for the thing that he knew wouldn't be there. Mummy was on her feet now accepting a glass of water from the strange man.

**II.**  
Wiggins, his name is Bill Wiggins...

**IV.**  
"Mycroft, what in heaven's name is going on?" Mummy asked, "And where is Sherlock?"

"Mother, have you seen my laptop?"

"Why no. Didn't you have it on the table?"

Mycroft left the kitchen to search the rest of the house. He could hear his mother behind him call out, "What about Christmas Dinner?"

After a brief look through all of the rooms on the ground floor, he left the house through the front door. He walked through the gate, closing it behind him and stood on the grassy field across from the house. He could clearly the see the marks made by a helicopter landing earlier in the day.

**II.**  
Civilian certainly. To be specific it was the kind used by the media.  
Sherlock is such a fool!  
He plans to sell my laptop to Magnussen for his silence.  
Idiot! Doesn't he know by now that Magnussen doesn't work that way?  
Magnussen is a spiteful man.

Mary Watson pointed a gun at him. He won't forget such a slight. Besides, he must know that the data will be automatically corrupted if the wrong password is used.

Sherlock wants to see the Appledore vaults. If the vault was that easy to find, we would have raided it by now. We've done ranging tests, sound waves through the ground, and found nothing.  
Doesn't Sherlock realize that it can't possibly be that simple? No of course he doesn't realize that. He is a dragon slayer blindly rushing forward to save the life of the murdering wife of his best friend. He's going to get himself and John Watson killed.

Where is that Bloody Helicopter?!

**IV.**  
As if on cue the sound of rotors came from the direction of the rooftop. Mycroft turned toward it and waited as the pilot located a spot and landed. The rotors slowed but did not stop as Mycroft walked toward it. He climbed in and the helicopter rose into the air.

"Where to, sir?"

"Appledore. You have the coordinates?"

"Yes sir."

"Then get a move on!"

"Yes sir," the man said pushing the lever so that they visibly shifted forward.

**II.**  
A helicopter came for them, so Magnussen sent for them himself. Meaning that Sherlock arranged this meeting in advance. When?  
His flat was too closely guarded for a meeting to have slipped by me. He must have arranged it while he was still in the hospital.

Magnussen has no plans to deal. Of that I am certain. He has allowed Sherlock to come to him because he enjoys torturing people. He set fire to John after all. At least the evidence points to him. The three assailants seen by the CCTV in front of Baker street were later identified as men in his employ, and that bonfire was funded by his newspaper.

It was most likely a test of loyalties for Mary. He probably wanted to know if she would try to rescue him or not. But now he surely knows that John is an even better lever to control Sherlock, and since my outburst, he knows that Sherlock is the lever to control me. What will he ask me for, I wonder?

**IV.**  
The sun began to sink below the horizon casting its ghastly red light across the trees. Mycroft checked his watch. It was 3:56. The response team texted that they were only five minutes away.

**II.**  
Drugging his own parents and flying off to confront Magnussen on Christmas day. This is a new low even for Sherlock. Good God! What was he thinking?

But that's the problem, isn't it? He wasn't thinking. He hasn't been thinking clearly since he got back to London. He takes weeks to solve cases that he once would have solved in a day. He accepts John's answers to problems instead of digging for them himself. He has become a much poorer detective, and why? Because of emotion. Because of love. None of this would have happened if Sherlock didn't love John Watson.

I never thought that I would say it, but he was better before he met John. He was arrogant, callous, reckless, and apathetic but not desperate. This is a desperate play to protect John's wife in order to protect John. It is foolish and poorly thought out, and I don't know how I'm going to save him this time. Selling state secrets is treason, punishable by life imprisonment or worse given his status as intelligence agent. A spy that can't be trusted soon becomes a dead spy.

I could, perhaps. claim that I told him to do it, to see if Magnussen would buy State secrets. It wouldn't get him jail time, he's far too powerful for that, but we might be able to use it as a tool to get some information from him. That is, if he accepts the offer. But why would he ever agree? He must know that we have a GPS tracker on that laptop. He would smell the trap a mile away.

Oh Sherlock! You have no idea what you are getting yourself into, do you?

**IV.**  
"Sir, the team has arrived at Appledore, they are asking for their orders."

"Tell them to go in, full stealth mode. No deaths, if possible, but they must extract Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at once. I'm emailing a picture to their commander now."

"Yes sir," The man said before forwarding the commands."

Mycroft pulled up a picture on his phone that he had taken that afternoon. Sherlock was standing beside the fireplace, and John was at his side, his hand gently touching his shoulder. Sherlock's head was tilted slightly toward John, and John was looking up into his eyes with that adoring gaze that he seemed to reserve only for Sherlock. He hesitated. Less than an hour before, the world had seemed peaceful, even boring. Now, it was turning upside down. He pushed send.

"Sir, we're coming up on it now," the pilot said, and Mycroft looked out of the window to see a well tended estate and the spiral topped house of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Mycroft looked for a black coated figure as they passed over the glassed-in roof. He finally found them, three figures on the veranda near the steps. He turned on the megaphone.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Stand away from that man!"

He could see the soldiers clad in black with infrared sights and rifles spreading out to come at them from from both sides. Magnussen and John were side by side. Sherlock was near the door. They could land on the lawn and carry them out before the police arrived. He would think of how to explain it later.

He spoke again. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away!"

Sherlock walked forward to stand beside John as the gunmen caught sight of them. If they injured Magnussen what would happen? Certainly there would be a scathing article about the British police state attacking harmless citizens. Only then did Mycroft realize that the response team probably thought that they were here to shoot his brother and John. He could see the soldiers putting the guns to their shoulders. Magnussen walked forward waving his hands leaving John and Sherlock standing together behind him. They were far too close to Magnussen for his tastes. Then again, ten miles would have been too close for Mycroft. He called again for them to move away.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Step away from that man. Do it now!"

A sense of dread and panic came over Mycroft then. Panic of the kind that he hadn't felt since...

_It was Easter break. He had been home from school less than a week. Sherlock was barely four years old, but he was already following Mycroft around everywhere. There was something, a compass that he had bought, and Sherlock kept pestering him to show it to him. He was so annoyed with him that he left the house._

_When he returned and walked up to his room, he noticed that the door was open. The house was silent, and that was not at all what he expected from a house with Sherlock in it. A horrible dread filled him then. It rose from his abdomen until his entire body was tense with an unfocused fear. He approached the door and walked around the corner to see his pet snake Oroboros on the bed wrapped around something black and curly, and sticking out from the coils was a tiny hand holding a shiny new compass._

Oroboros was squeezing his brother to death, and Mycroft was panic stricken. Looking down at his brother now, he was gripped by the same fear. Sherlock had got himself caught up in the coils of a snake again.

As Sherlock walked toward Magnussen, Mycroft had a moment of complete clarity. He knew exactly what Sherlock was planning to do, but he froze just as he had then, and so he watched in horror as Sherlock pulled out the gun and shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head.

  
**I.**

...

**II.**

...

**III.**

...

**IV.**  
The body made a graceful arc as it fell, landing on the concrete with a sound that was completely drowned out by the echoing gunshot.

"Orders sir... they're asking for orders. Do we take him down?"

"Do not fire!" Mycroft said. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock put his arms up as the gunmen converged upon him. He was a man who had given his future to protect his friend's future. A man who had killed another man, but all that Mycroft could see was the little boy who had followed him everywhere. The little boy who had wanted to be just like him. The little boy he loved.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

The men took them away then. Cuffing Sherlock's hands roughly behind his back before leading him around the building to the waiting van. John was also taken away. Mycroft pulled out his phone and called a containment team to deal with Magnussen's body.


	19. 28 December 2014 - Farewell to Love

**_I._ **  
_25 December 2014_  
 _4:22pm Twilight_  
 _City offices closed due to holiday. Emergency services still in operation..._

**II.**  
This is a disaster of a scale that ...I have no idea how to fix this. Think!

**_III._ **  
_Witnesses. Helicopter operator Randall Thomas. Response Team commander ..._

**IV.**  
"Take us back to the airport, and have my car standing by."

_**V.** _

_Call Agnes. Tell her to initiate protocol 6 containment. Leave a message for my mother telling her that Sherlock and John have been located, but that we will not be able to return. Arrange for Mary to be returned to her home, and that homeless person to be removed. Perhaps he should be searched. That punch should certainly be taken in for analysis. What did I ingest?_

**VI.**

Who owes me favors that I can use in this instance. The prime minister, but he has his own troubles now. Keep him out of it. Sir William has contacts with media channels. If we could find the right spin we might be able to minimize the damage. Lady Smallwood. She will certainly sympathize with Sherlock's actions after her husband's suicide...

**_VII._ **  
_CAM industries. Next in line would be Ingolf Laursen he would take up the business operations, but the blackmail, that was always handled by Magnussen personally. His main enforcer is Carl Drover. Without Magnussen to command him, he will probably try to find a way to secure his income. We could use that to our advantage. We could freeze his assets using that sexual assault case as an excuse and..._

**VIII.**  
Sherlock and John will be taken to a holding cell. They will be searched and x-rayed, their coats removed, pockets emptied and the contents stored. No photographs will be taken under this protocol. They will be placed in separate cells to await orders. I must send ahead for John to be released after a warning that this incident is to remain classified.

.

**IV.**  
The helicopter landed, and Mycroft climbed out. He walked over to the waiting car.

**II.**  
Should I go to see Sherlock?  
What is there to say? I don't have a plan. Not yet.

He will have to be content where he is until I can find a way to navigate through this mess.

**IV.**  
"To the office." Mycroft said through the intercom. He watched the driver nod his head through the soundproof glass.

**II.**  
It's like the snake all over again. The coils were too tight. I couldn't pull them off, so I worked my hand under them cupping my palm over his tiny chest to give him room to breathe while I distracted the snake with everything that I could find. Eventually I was able to unwrap the snake from Sherlock and carry him back to his room. He looked so small. His tiny chest was rising and falling so fast. His voice a squeak as he said my name. I thought that I had lost him then. I'm not going to lose him now.

But I'm going to need help.

**IV.**

Mycroft pulled out his phone.  
"Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes. Patch me through to the head of M.I.6."

.

.

.

**IV.**

Mycroft walked into the gray interrogation cell and looked around. A table, two chairs, not much else.

He carried the chair over to the wall, climbed up on it, and unplugged the feed to the camera. Then he stepped down and brushed off the dirt before putting the chair back beside at the table. He walked around the table then, and sat down.

The door opened and Sherlock was led in. His hands were uncuffed, and the men left closing the door behind him.

"So," Sherlock began, "What is my fate to be? Is it prison?"

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. Why don't you take a seat?"

"No, thank you," he said as he began to pace around the room. He glanced up at the disconnected camera.

"You've got yourself into quite a mess."

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Sherlock, do you have any idea of the gravity of the situation that you are in?"

"I do. And you've already decided what will happen to me, so don't keep me in suspense. What is it?"

"Charles Augustus Magnussen was killed by an unknown gunman in his home, Appledore, on Christmas Day. Investigators have found no leads to suggest who may have broken into his home."

"That won't stand up to close scrutiny."

"There won't be any scrutiny. Most people with enough power to question it are so pleased that he's dead, they aren't asking any questions."

"Then, I'll be freed?"

"Unfortunately no. State secrets were removed and a task force was used. Too many people know the truth to hide it from the government. We can, however, classify the information, make your involvement a state secret if..."

"If?"

"If you take the assignment in Eastern Europe."

"The one that will kill me in six months."

"Yes."

"So, It's a life for a life. How very Old Testament of you, Mycroft."

"Did you expect any less? You knew what you were doing when you pulled that trigger. Murder, especially of someone as powerful as Charles Augustus Magnussen, can't simply be swept under a rug."

"I see, this way you can keep it out of the newspapers that your brother is a cold blooded killer. How good for you."

"It took a great deal of effort to negotiate this deal. Would you prefer a trial? another media circus, an investigation which would bring public attention to John Watson and his wife, not to mention dragging Mother and Father through that all over again?"

Sherlock bowed his head. Then he looked straight into Mycroft's eyes.

"I want to see John. One more time. Before I go."

"Of course. I'll make the arrangements."

.

.

**_I._ **  
_28 December 2014_  
 _Sunday_

**_III._ **  
_Good Morning! Dobro utro! Good evening Dobar Wecher! I'm fine, thanks! Dobre, mersi! and you, A ti? ..._

**IV.**  
They drove to the airport in silence. Sherlock was distracted looking out at his beloved London. Mycroft glanced at his brother.

**II.**  
He accepted it so quickly, the assignment.  
He thinks it a perfectly logical occurrence that his own brother would send him to his death. When did he begin to think me so heartless?

The deal with M.I.6. was to muddy the evidence and cover up Sherlock's involvement in exchange for finding an agent for the assignment in Eastern Europe. Sherlock will go, and he will do it brilliantly. He'll hold out for as long as he can, walking valiantly toward his own death, because at heart, Sherlock really is a hero even if he doesn't know it himself.

**IV.**  
The car stopped and they stepped out to wait as another car drove up and John and Mary Watson climbed out. Mary came over and hugged Sherlock giving him a kiss on the cheek before going back to take her husband's arm.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrow and then motioned with his head for the others to follow him. He watched from a distance as they talked. Sherlock made John laugh. He resisted maudlin protestations of love, deciding instead on a simple handshake. No need for more than that. If John didn't know by now how much Sherlock loved him, then he never would.

**II.**  
Love. Caring. If I ever needed an illustration of why it should be avoided, I have it here. What a mess of mixed loyalties and affections.

Love leads to loss.

It was an expensive lesson to learn, and a hard one, especially considering that I've known the answer from the start. Caring is not an advantage. It is a weakness. Even James Moriarty had fallen to it. If he had not cared about my brother, he might still be alive today.

But this is my fault.

I could have separated John from Sherlock at the very beginning. I saw this happening. But even when Sherlock went away, I allowed myself to dream. 'What harm could it do to fantasize?' I thought. It was only one small track of my mind thought of him. What harm could it do?

**IV.**  
Sherlock walked away from John and went quickly up the steps into the plane without a word. Mycroft watched him go.

**II.**

Mother always thought that Sherlock had stolen her favorite kitchen knife. She never suspected that it was in the rubbish bin wrapped in a torn bedsheet and stuffed under some of Sherlock's dirty nappies.

I didn't expect that there would be so much blood. Oroboros bled and bled once I chopped off her head. I put her in the tub and let her life drain away while I used my bedsheets to mop up the mess on the bathroom floor. I told them that she had died of natural causes. No one thought to question it when they found me burying her body in the back yard. It was the last time I can remember crying. Because I had loved that snake, but I loved my brother more.

**IV.**  
Mycroft went to his car to wait for the plane to leave. He looked across at Mary and John Watson standing hand in hand on the tarmac.

**II.**  
Sherlock is leaving for his death as a hero. I on the other hand, am not a hero. I have no intention of accepting a valiant death when there is any means of escape. Long before his time is up, I will be there to remove Sherlock to a safer location. Sherlock will go on the run again. He may never be able to return to England, but he will be alive.

I will assure that my brother will be safe because Sherlock will never see John Watson again, and neither will I.

It was my...affection for John Watson that kept me from separating him from my brother. So many times I considered it, but I _'liked'_ him, so I let him stay. This entire track of my mind has been filled with narcissistic, frivolous thoughts of him. I should delete in in entirety. One last look, and I will close off my heart forever. No goldfish, no daydreams, no weakness.

Without John Watson, Sherlock and I will be free to become the men we planned to become so long ago.

_'A body, a brain, and an intellect, without any trace of a heart.'_

**END TRACK II.**

.

**_I._ **  
_28 December 2014_  
 _Sunday_  
 _Moon first quarter, skies overcast._

**_III._ **  
_Sherlock's itinerary: Private jet to Belgium. Change of identity, appearance. Commercial flight to Switzerland. Travel by land to Bulgaria._

**IV.**  
The plane took off and flew into the air taking Sherlock away.

Mycroft leaned forward to tell the driver to leave, when he was interrupted by an urgent message on his phone.

"But that's not possible. That is simply not possible" he said stepping out of the car.

John Watson walked over to him. "What's happened?" he asked.

Mycroft looked up into his sea blue eyes, and cracked a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering about the structure, the concept was that Mycroft's mind was not sequential like yours or mine. He broke his thoughts down into parallel tracks and he was thinking all of the tracks at once.
> 
> This is what the tracks represented.  
> Track 1: Time, date, local weather and news, physical location  
> Track 2: Conscious thought, monologue   
> Track 3: Code breaking, long term processing, back burner  
> Track 4: Dialogue and motion, Deep feelings and emotions 
> 
> Hope that you liked it.


End file.
